i): 


.^* 


<  . 


1 


'•r 


f'K 


X' 


-^^ 


BflLZflC. 


=5=r*I 


il    LIBRARY  OF 

H.B.HILL. 


Nol    LIBRARY 


^ 


WHEN   PERUSED. 


fp'^l' 


^9:'vt 


'M'r^^%^ 


./,'• 


.=.VM' 


^ 


f^Mu. 


THE  J5^fi^  ^.£^^ 

CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE, 

%\^  ®i\tx  Cal.es, 


BY 

HONORE     DE     BALZAC. 


TRANSLATED  INTO  ENGLISH   BY 

PHILIP   KENT,   B.A., 
TBiNrnr  collxqb,  cambbidge;  bahbisier  or  thb  inner  tsuplb. 


■>♦■•>-♦- 


GHICA  GO: 

BELFORDS,    CLAEKE    &    CO. 

187  9. 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/catbattledoreotliOObalziala 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE. 

(La  Maison  Bv  Chat  Qui  Pelote.) 

DEDICATED   TO   MADEMOISELLE   MARIE  DE   MONTHEAU. 

In  the  middle  of  the  Rue  St.  Denis  ahnost  at  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  du  Petit  Lion,  there  formerly  stood  one  of  those  precious 
houses  which  render  it  easy  for  the  historian,  with  the  aid  of 
analogy,  to  reproduce  old  Paris.  The  menacing  walls  of  the 
rickety  old  building  seemed  to  have  been  spattered  with  hiero- 
glyphics, for  hieroglyphics  is  the  only  word  that  the  watchful 
idler  could  apply  to  the  X's  and  V's  traced  upon  the  facade  by 
the  horizontal  or  diagonal  pieces  of  wood  whose  course  was 
marked  in  the  whitewash  by  small  parallel  chinks.  It  was 
obvious  that  the  passage  of  the  lightest  vehicle  would  cause 
every  one  of  these  beams  to  tremble  in  its  socket.  The  vener- 
able building  was  surmounted  by  a  triangular  roof  of  a  kind  of 
which  very  soon  not  a  single  example  will  be  left  in  Paris. 
This  roof,  stained  by  the  inclemency  of  a  Parisian  atmosphere, 
overhung  the  street  to  a  distance  of  three  feet,  as  much  for  the 
purpose  of  protecting  the  doorstep  from  rain-water,  as  for  afford- 
ing cover  to  the  wall  of  an  attic  with  its  sill-less  window.  This 
last  storey  was  built  of  planks  nailed  one  upon  the  other,  like 
scales ;  in  order,  doubtless,  not  to  over-weight  the  frail  erec- 
tion. 

On  a  rainy  morning  in  the  month  of  March,  a  young  man 
carefully  wrapped  in  his  mantle,  was  stationed  under  the  pent- 
house of  a  shop  opposite  to  the  old  dwelling,  which  he  was  scrut- 
inizing with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  an  archseologist.  In  truth 
this  relic  of  the  bourgeoisie  of  the  sixteenth  century,  supplied 
the  observer  wiih  more  than  one  problem  for  solution.  Each 
storey  had  its  peculiarity  ;  in  the  first  there  were  four  long 


6  BALZAC. 

narrow  windows,  closely  packed,  and  having  tbeir  lower  por- 
tions filled  with  wooden  squaies  with  the  object  of  producing 
that  treacherous  light,  by  whose  aid  a  skilful  shopkeeper  lends 
to  his  articles  the  particular  shade  desired  by  his  customers. 
The  young  man  seemed  to  entertain  a  profound  contempt  for 
this  very  necessary  part  of  the  house;  his  eyes  did  not  rest 
there,  even  for  a  moment.  The  windows  of  the  second  storey 
— whose  blinds  were  raised  so  as  to  display  through  their 
large  panes  of  Bohemian  glass,  the  small  curtains  of  red 
muslin — did  not  excite  in  him  any  deeper  interest.  His  atten- 
tion was  particularly  directed  to  the  third  storey,  to  some  hum- 
ble windows  whose  roughly  finished  wooden  frames  would  have 
deserved  a  place  in  the  School  of  Arts  and  Manufactures,  as  a 
sample  of  the  earliest  French  joining.  These  windows  were 
glazed  with  little  panes,  so  green  that,  but  for  his  excellent 
sight,  the  young  man  could  not  have  seen  the  calico  curtains 
with  their  blue  squares  which  concealed  from  the  eyes  of  the 
profane  the  mysteries  of  the  apartment.  At  times  our  watcher, 
wearied  by  his  fruitless  observation,  or  by  the  silence  in  which 
the  house  and  the  whole  neighborhood  were  buried,  bent  his 
gaze  upon  the  lower  parts  of  the  house.  An  involuntary  smile 
then  formed  itself  upon  his  lips,  as  the  shop,  with  its  amalga- 
mation of  ridiculous  objects  once  more  met  his  gaze.  A  for- 
midable piece  of  wood  laid  horizontally  upon  four  pillars, 
which  seemed  to  be  bowed  by  the  weight  of  the  decrepid 
dwelling,  had  been  retouched  with  as  many  coats  of  different 
colors  as  the  cheek  of  any  old  duchess  with  layers  of  rouge. 
In  the  centre  of  this  large  beam,  which  was  delicately  carved, 
was  to  be  seen  an  old  picture  representing  the  cat. 

It  was  this  picture  that  excited  the  amusemert  of  the 
young  man.  But  we  must  admit  that  the  cleverest  of  modern 
painters  could  not  invent  so  comical  a  caricature.  The  ani- 
mal held  in  one  of  its  front  paws  a  racket,  as  big  as  itself,  and 
was  raising  itself  upon  its  hind  paws,  to  take  aim  at  an  enor- 
mous ball  thrown  back  to  it  by  a  gentleman  in  an  embroidered 


THE   CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE.  7 

coal.  Designs,  color,  accessories  and  all  were  treated  in  sucli 
a  manner  as  to  give  rise  to  the  idea  that  the  artist's  intention 
was  to  make  game  of  shopkeeper  and  passer-by.  Time,  by 
changing  the  appearance  of  this  primitive  picture,  had  ren- 
dered it  still  more  grotesque  by  introducing  a  certain  vague- 
ness which  might  distu.'b  the  conscientious  idler.  Thus  the 
spotted  tail  of  the  cat  was  so  cut  out  that  it  might  be  taken 
for  a  looker-on  ;  so  big,  so  lofty,  and  so  thick  were  the  tails  of 
our  ancestors'  cats.  To  the  right  of  this  picture,  on  an  azure 
field,  which  only  in  part  concealed  the  rottenness  of  the  wood, 
the  passer-by  beheld  the  word  Guillaume,  and  to  the  left 
Successeure  du  Sieur  Chevrel.  Sun  and  rain  had  destroyed  the 
greater  part  of  the  gilt,  which  had  been  parsimoniously  applied 
to  the  letters  of  this  inscription,  in  which  the  u!s  stood  for  v's, 
and  the  v^s  for  t^!s  according  to  the  laws  of  our  ancient  ortho- 
graphy. Here,  with  a  view  to  taking  down  the  pride  of  those 
who  believe  that  the  world  grows  cleverer  from  day  to  day,  and 
that  the  charlatanism  of  modern  times  is  unrivalled,  it  is  fitting 
to  point  out,  that  these  signs,  whose  etymology  seems  strange 
to  many  a  Parisian  shopkeeper,  are  the  inanimate  representa- 
tions of  living  presentations,  by  aid  of  which  our  cunning 
ancestors  had  succeeded  in  attracting  customers  to  their 
houses.  Thus  the  Spinning  Sow,  the  Green  Monkey,  &c., 
were  caged  animals  whose  skill  surprised  the  passer-by,  while 
their  education  demonstrated  the  patience  of  the  tradesman  of 
the  fifteenth  century.  Such  curiosities  enriched  their  fortunate 
owners  more  speedily  than  the  Providences,  the  Good  Faiths, 
the  God's  graces,  and  the  decapitations  of  St.  John  the  Baptist, 
which  are  still  to  be  seen  in  the  Rue  St.  Denis. 

However,  £)ur  young  man  was  assuredly  not  standing  there 
to  admire  the  cat,  which  a  moment's  careful  notice  would  grave 
in  the  memory.  He  also  had  his  singularities.  His  mantle, 
folded  like  the  drapery  of  an  ancient  statue,  did  not  hide  his 
well-made  shoes,  which  were  the  more  noticeable  amid  the  mud 
of  Paris,  in  that  he  wore  white  silk  stockings,  whose  stains  bore 


8  BALZAC. 

witness  to  his  impatience.  It  was  evident  that  he  had  just 
left  some  ball  or  wedding,  for  he  held  a  pair  of  white  gloves  in 
his  hand,  and  the  disordered  curls  of  his  black  hair  lay  scattered 
on  his  shoulders,  and  displayed  the  Caracalla  cut  rendered 
fashionable  by  the  school  of  the  painter  David,  as  well  as  by 
that  passion  for  Greek  and  Roman  fashions  which  marked  the 
early  years  of  tnis  century.  In  spite  of  the  noise  made  by  cer- 
tain market-gardeners,  who  set  their  horses  at  a  gallop  in  order 
to  reach  the  central  market  betimes,  the  busy  street  was 
wrapped  in  that  silence  whose  magic  is  known  only  to  those 
who  have  wandered  through  the  deserted  city  at  those  hours, 
when  its  clatter,  for  a  moment  stilled,  begins  again  to  break 
forth,  and  is  heard  in  the  distance,  like  the  great  murmur  of 
the  sea.  This  strange  young  man  must  have  been  as  much  an 
object  of  curiosity  to  the  shop  folks  of  the  Chat  qui-pelote,  as 
the  Chat-qui-pelote  was  to  him.  A  cravat  of  dazzling  white- 
ness rendered  his  anxious  face  paler  than  in  reality  it  was.  The 
fire,  now  sombre,  now  sparkling,  cast  by  his  dark  eyes,  harmon- 
ized with  the  strange  contours  of  his  face,  and  with  his  large 
and  many-folded  mouth  that  narrowed  when  he  smiled.  His 
forehead  now  wrinkled  by  some  acute  disappointment,  was 
stamped  with  some  fatality.  Is  not  the  forehead  the  most  pro- 
phetic part  of  the  face  ?  When  the  forehead  of  the  stranger 
expressed  passion,  the  furrows  which  it  formed  inspired  a  kind 
of  terror  by  their  vigorous  developement ;  yet  when  restored  to 
that  repose  which  was  so  readily  disturbed,  this  forehead  dif- 
fused around  it  a  luminous  grace  which  lent  a  certain  charm  to 
a  face  in  which  joy  and  sorrow,  love,  anger,  and  disdain  shone 
forth  so  contagiously  that  the  coldest  could  not  escape  being 
impressed  by  it. 

The  stranger  was  in  such  a  fretful  mood  at  the  moment 
when  the  attic  window  was  hastily  opened,  that  he  did  not  per- 
ceive three  gladsome  faces  pink  and  white — but  commonplace 
as  the  figure-heads  of  Commerce  to  be  found  on  certain  monu- 
ments.    These  three  faces,  to  which  the  dormer  window  formed 


THE   CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE.  9 

a  sort  of  frame,  recalled  the  chubby  faces  of  the  cherubs 
scattered  among  the  clouds  that  surround  the  Pere  eternel. 
The  apprentices  inhaled  the  exhalations  of  the  street  in  a  man- 
ner which  proved  how  heated  and  mephitic  was  the  atmosphere 
of  their  attic.  After  having  pointed  out  the  curious  sentinel, 
the  apprentice  who  seemed  the  most  jovial  of  the  three,  dis- 
appeared and  came  back  holding  in  his  hand  an  instrument, 
whose  unbending  metal  has  recently  been  replaced  by  supple 
leather ;  then  every  face  assumed  a  mischievous  expression  as 
they  watched  the  loiterer  whom  they  sprinkled  with  a  fine  white 
spray,  whose  odor  clearly  showed  that  the  three  chins  had  just 
been  shaved.  Standing  on  tiptoe  and  ensconsed  in  the  back 
part  of  their  attic,  in  order  to  enjoy  the  vexation  of  their  vic- 
tim, thethree  assistants  ceased  to  laugh,  when  they  observed 
the  careless  contempt  with  which  the  young  man  shook  his 
mantle,  and  the  profound  disdain  depicted  on  the  countenance 
which  he  raised  to  the  empty  window.  At  that  moment  a 
white  and  delicate  hand  raised  the  lower  part  of  one  of  the  rude 
windows  of  the  third  storey,  by  means  of  one  of  those  slides  the 
tourniquet  of  which  frequently  drops  without  a  warning  the 
heavy  window  which  it  should  secure.  Then  was  the  passer 
rewarded  for  his  lengthy  watch.  A  young  girl's  face,  as  fresh 
as  one  of  those  white  cups  that  emboss  the  bosom  of  the  lake 
with  flowers,  appeared,  crowned  with  a  ruche  of  crumpled  mus- 
lin that  gave  the  head  -an  air  of  admirable  innocence.  The 
neck  and  shoulders,  though  covered  with  some  brown  material, 
could  yet  be  seen,  thanks  to  some  slight  interstices  produced 
by  the  slumberer's  movements.  There  was  no  expression  of 
constraint  either  in  the  ingenuous  face  or  in  the  calm  eyes  im- 
mortalized by  anticipation  in  the  sublime  productions  of 
Raphael.  There  were  to  be  seen  the  selfsame  grace,  the 
selfsame  tranquility  which  have  become  proverbial.  Charming 
was  the  contrast  between  the  youthful  cheek  on  which  sleep 
had  produced  the  appearance  of  overflowing  life,  and  the 
antique  massive  window  with  its  rough  outlines  and  black  sill. 


10  BALZAC. 

Like  those  flowers  of  the  daytime  which  the  morning  finds  with 
the  still  unfolded  tunic  which  the  chilly  night  has  closed,  the 
only  half-awakened  girl  cast  her  blue  eyes  upon  the  neighbor- 
ing roofs  and  on  the  sky ;  but,  in  obedience  to  a  kind  of  habit' 
they  sank  to  the  sombre  regions  of  the  street,  and  there  at  once 
encountered  those  of  her .  adorer.  Doubtless  her  vanity  was 
wounded  at  being  seen  in  such  unfashionable  garb.  So  she 
suddenly  drew  back,  the  well-worn  tourniquet  yielded,  the  win- 
dow came  down  with  that  rapidity  which  has  gained  for  this 
primitive  invention  of  our  ancestors  an  odious  name,  and  the 
vision  disappeared.  To  that  young  man  the  brightest  of  the 
morning  stars  seemed  to.  have  been  suddenly  hidden  by  a 
cloud. 

While  these  little  events  were  in  progress  the  heavy  inside 
shutters  which  reinforced  the  fragile  casement  of  the  shop  of 
the  Chat-quipelote  have  been  removed  as  if  by  magic.  The 
old  knockered  door  was  folded  back  upon  the  interior  wall  of 
the  house  by  a  servant,  seemingly  contemporary  with  the  sign, 
who  with  trembling  hand  fastened  to  the  door  the  scrap  of 
square  cloth  on  which  was  embroidered  in  yellow  silk  the  name 
Guillaume,  Successeur  de  Chevrel.  More  than  one  passer-by 
would  have  been  puzzled  to  discover  the  nature  of  the  business 
carried  on  by  M.  Guillaume.  It  was  barely  possible  to  distin 
guish  through  the  thick  iron  bars  which  protected  the  exterior 
of  the  shop,  the  brown  calico-covered  parcels  numerous  as  a 
shoal  of  herrings.  Spite  of  the  apparent  simplicity  of  this 
Gothic  front,  M.  Guillaume  was  of  all  Parisian  linen-drapers 
the  one  whose  warehouses  were  ever  the  best  supplied,  whose 
connections  were  most  widely  spread,  while  his  commercial 
integrity  was  beyond  suspicion.  If  any  of  his  compeers  entered 
into  a  government  contract  without  having  the  requisite  quan- 
tity of  cloth,  he  was  always  ready  to  deliver  it  to  them,  how" 
ever  great  might  be  the  number  of  pieces  tendered  for.  The 
wily  merchant  knew  a  thousand  ways  of  securing  for  himself 
the  greatest  share  of  pro^t  without  being  driven  like  them  to 


THE   CAT  AND   BATTLEDORE.  11 

cringe  or  offer  rich  bribes  to  powerful  patrons.  If  his  com- 
peers could  pay  him  only  in  sound  but  somewhat  long-dated 
bills,  he  referred  them  to  his  notary  as  an  accommodating 
person,  and  thus  made  a  double  profit,  thanks  to  this  expedient, 
which  gave  rise  among  the  shopkeepers  of  the  Rue  St.  Denis 
to  the  proverbial  saying  "  God  preserve  you  from  the  notary  of 
M.  Guillaume,  "  meaning  a  heavy  discount. 

The  old  shopkeeper  was  to  be  found,  as  if  by  miracle,  at  the 
door  of  his  shop  at  the  moment  when  the  servant  withdrew ; 
he  gazed  upon  the  Rue  St.  Denis,  the  neighboring  shops  and 
the  sky,  like  a  man  who  disembarking  at  Havre  sees  France 
once  more  after  a  long  voyage. 

Having  satisfied  himself  that  all  was  as  it  had  been  when 
he  went  to  bed,  he  at  length  perceived  the  sentinel  stranger, 
who  in  his  turn  contemplated  the  patriarch  of  drapery  much  as 
Humboldt  must  have  examined  the  first  electric  gymnote  that 
he  saw  in  America.  M.  Guillaume  wore  ample  breeches  of 
black  velvet,  stockings,  and  square-toed  shoes  with  silver 
buckles.  His  slightly  stooping  figure  was  clothed  with  a  square- 
lapped,  sqware-tailed,  square-collared  coat  of  greenish  cloth, 
whose  large  white  metal  buttons  were  somewhat  tarnished  by 
wear.  His  grey  hairs  were  so  scrupulously  smoothed  and 
combed,  and  flattened  down  upon  his  yellow  skull,  as  to  make 
it  look  like  a  field  in  furrows.  His  small  green  eyes,  which 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  pierced  with  a  gimlet,  gleamed 
beneath  two  arches,  on  which  a  faint  red  mark  supplied  the 
place  of  brows.  Care  had  traced  upon  his  forehead  straight 
furrows,  numerous  as  the  creases  in  his  coat.  His  pale  face 
spoke  of  patience,  commercial  prudence,  and  that  species  of 
cunning  cupidity  which  business  requires.  At  the  period  of 
which  I  am  speaking  those  old  families,  wherein  the  manners 
and  fashion  of  dress  distinctive  of  their  calling,  were  preserved  as 
precious  traditions,  were  more  frequently  to  be  met  with  thannow- 
a-days.  There  they  were,  in  the  midst  of  modern  civilization,  like 
relics  of  an  antediluvian  age,  discovered  in  a  quarry  by  some  Cuvier. 


12  BALZAC. 

The  head  of  the  Guillaume  family,  was  just  one  of  these  notable 
guardians  of  old  customs.  You  would  catch  him  regretting  the 
provost  of  the  shopkeepers,  and  whenever  he  spoke  of  a  decision 
of  the  tribunal  of  commerce,  he  always  called  it  the  sentence 
of  the  consuls.  The  earliest  riser,  doubtless  in  accordance 
with  those  ancient  customs,  of  his  household,  he  was  awaiting 
with  firm  foot  the  advent  of  his  clerks,  ready  to  scold  them  in 
case  of  their  being  late.  Those  young  disciples  of  Mercury 
knew  of  nothing  so  much  to  be  dreaded  as  the  silent  activity 
with  which  their  chief  examined  their  faces  and  their  move- 
ments on  Monday  morning,  with  an  eye  to  the  discovery  of 
proofs  and  traces  of  their  escapades.  But  at  the  present 
moment  the  old  draper  was  not  paying  any  attention  Avhatever 
to  his  young  apprentices;  he  was  busy  in  discovering  the  motive 
of  the  anxiety  which  the  young  man  in  the  mantle  and  silk  stock- 
ings displayed  by  gazing  first  at  the  sign  and  then  into  the 
depths  of  the  shop. 

It  was  now  much  lighter,  and  the  desk  with  its  iron  grill  and 
curtains  of  old  green  silk,  the  desk  which  held  the  ponderous 
books,  mute  oracles  of  the  house,  was  now  visible.-  The  too 
inquiring  stranger  seemed  to  covet  that  little  spot,  and  thence 
to  take  a  plan  of  a  lateral  dining-room  lighted  by  a  window  in 
the  ceiling  and  affording  the  family  during  meal-time  a  ready 
view  of  the  slightest  incidents  which  might  take  place  at  the 
door  of  the  shop.  So  great  a  passion  for  his  abode  seemed 
suspicious  to  a  shopkeeper  who  had  undergone  the  Maximum 
of  1793.  It  therefore  very  naturally  occurred  to  M;  Guillaume 
that  that  sinister  countenance  boded  an  attack  upon  the  strong 
box  of  the  Chat-qui-pelote.  After  having  discreetly  enjoyed 
the  mute  duel  which  took  place  between  his  employer 
and  the  stranger,  the  eldest  of  the  clerks,  seeing  the  young 
man  cast  a  furiive  glance  at  the  windows  of  the  third  storey, 
ventured  to  place  himself  on  the  floor  of  the  shop  beside  M. 
Guillaume.  Then  taking  two  steps  into  the  street,  the  clerk 
looked  up,  and  fancied  he  saw  Mademoiselle  Augustine  Guil. 


THE   CAT  AND   BATTLEDORE.  13 

laume  hastily  withdraw  from  the  window.  Not  relishing  the 
perspicacity  of  his  chief  clerk,  the  draper  cast  a  side-glance  at 
him,  but  all  at  once  the  mutual  fears  which  the  stranger's 
presence  aroused  in  tke  mind  of  the  shopkeeper  and  the 
enamored  clerk  were  soothed.  The  stranger  hailed  a  cab 
which  was  driving  to  some  neighboring  stand,  and  quickly  took 
his  seat  with  an  air  of  deceptive  indifference.  His  departure 
was  not  without  its  calming  effects  upon  the  minds  of  the  other 
clerks,  who  were  far  from  easy,  when  on  coming  downstairs 
they  found  the  victim  of  their  practical  joke  still  on  the  spot. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,  what  do  you  mean  by  sticking  there 
with  your  arms  folded  ? "  said  M.  Guillaume  to  his  three 
neophytes.  "  Why  formerly,  by  Jove,  when  I  was  clerk  to  M. 
Chevrel  I  should  have  examined  two  pieces  of  cloth  by  this 
time." 

"  The  sun  must  have  risen  earlier  then,"  said  the  second 
clerk,  on  whom  this  duty  devolved.  The  old  shopkeepei 
could  not  forbear  from  smiling. 

Although  two  of  these  three  young  men  who  had  been  con- 
fided to  his  care  by  their  fathers,  who  were  wealthy  manu- 
facturers at  Louvieis  and  Sedan,  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  ask 
and  have  four  thousand  pounds  as  soon  as  they  should  be  old 
enough  to  start  upon  their  own  account,  Guillaume  deemed  it 
his  duty  to  keep  them  under  the  ferule  of  an  antique  depotism 
quite  unknown  in  our  day,  in  the  gay  shops  of  modern  times, 
whose  clerks  want  to  be  rich  at  thirty.  Guillaume  made  his 
clerks  work  like  slaves.  Between  the  three  of  them  they 
sufficed  for  all  the  demands  of  a  business  which  would  have 
tried  the  metal  of  ten  of  those  assistants  whose  luxurious  tastes 
swell  the  columns  of  the  budgets  of  to-day. 

No  noise  disturbed  the  peace  of  the  staid  old  house,  in  which 
the  hinges  seemed  to  be  always  oiled,  and  every  piece  of  furni- 
ture, even  the  most  trifling,  showed  that  admirable  neatness 
which  bespeaks  the  severest  order  and  economy.  Often  and 
often  had  the  wag  amused  himself  by  inscribing  on  the  gruyere 


14!  BALZAC. 

which  was  left  to  the  mercy  of  the  clerks  at  luncheon,  and  which 
they  made  a  joke  of  saving,  the  date  of  its  original  admission. 
This  pleasentry  and  others  of  a  similar  character  sometimes 
raised  a  smile  upon  the  features  of  M.  Guillaume's  youngest 
daughter,  the  pretty  maiden  who  had  just  disappeared  from  the 
gaze  of  the  enchanted  stranger.  Although  each  of  the  appren- 
tices, even  the  eldest,  paid  a  handsome  sum  for  board,  not  one 
of  them  would  have  been  bold  enough  to  remain  at  his  patron's 
table  when  dessert  made  its  appearance.  When  Madame 
Guillaume  talked  of  dressing  the  salad,  these  poor  young  fellows 
shuddered  as  they  thought  of  the  parsimony  displayed  by  her 
prudent  hands  in  dispensing  the  oil.  It  would  never  have 
entered  their  heads  to  stay  out  all  night  without  having  given 
long  beforehand  a  plausible  excuse  for  such  an  irregularity. 
Every  Sunday  two  of  the  clerks  took  it  in  turn  to  accompany 
the  Guillaume  family  to  mass  at  St.  Leu  and  to  vespers. 
Mademoiselle  Virginie  and  Meadmoiselle  Augustine,  chastely 
attired  in  print,  took  each  the  arm  of  one  of  the  clerks,  and 
walked  before  under  the  penetrating  eyes  of  their  mother,  who 
brought  up  the  rear  of  this  family  procession,  accompanied  by 
her  husband  drilled  into  the  duty  of  carrying  two  large  prayer 
books  bound  in  black  morocco.  The  second  clerk  had  no  salary. 
As  for  the  one  whom  twelve  years  of  perseverance  and  discre- 
tion had  instructed  in  the  secrets  of  the  establishment,  he 
received  32/.  a  year  as  compensation  for  his  labor.  On  certain 
family  high  days  and  holidays  he  received  certain  presents 
(whose  value  consisted  in  the  fact  that  they  came  through 
Madame  Guillaume's  dry  and  wrmkled  hand);  thread  purses 
stuffed  with  cotton  to  exhibit  the  open  work  designs,  braces,  or 
a  pair  of  silk  stockings  of  the  thickest  kind.  At  times,  though 
rarely,  this  first  minister  was  allowed  to  share  the  diversions  of 
the  family,  either  excursions  to  the  country,  or  when,  after 
months  of  expectation,  it  was  decided  to  exercise  the  right  of 
commanding  some  long-forgotten  piece,  which  taking  a  box 
confers.     As  for  the  other  clerks,  the  barrier  of  respect  which 


THE   CAT   AXD   BATTLEDORE.  15 

formerly  separated  a  master-draper  from  his  apprentices  was  so 
firmly  erected  between  them  and  the  old  shopkeeper,  that  it 
would  have  been  easier  for  them  to  steal  a  piece  of  cloth,  than 
to  disturb  that  august  etiquette.  This  reserve  may  appear 
ridiculous  to-day ;  but  for  all  that,  these  old-fashioned  houses 
were  schools  of  morality  and  integrity.  The  masters  adopted 
their  apprentices.  A  young  man's  linen  was  looked  after, 
mended,  sometimes  renewed,  by  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
Did  one  of  the  apprentices  fall  ill .?  He  became  the  object  of 
a  thoroughly  maternal  care.  Was  the  illness  dangerous  ?  The 
master  scattered  his  money  about  in  fees  to  the  most  celebrated 
doctors  ;  for  he  did  not  undertake  to  look  after  the  morals  and 
education  only  of  the  young  folks.  If  one  of  them  of  honor- 
able character,  encountered  some  misfortune,  these  old  trades- 
people knew  how  to  appreciate  the  intelligence  which  he  had 
displayed, nor  did  they  hesitate  to  entrust  the  happiness  of  their 
daugliters  to  one  to  whom  they  had  long  entrusted  their  fortune* 
Guillaume  was  one  of  these  men  of  the  olden  times,  and  if  he 
was  not  free  from  their  absurdities,  he  possessed  all  their  good 
qualities.  Accordingly  Joseph  Lebas,  his  chief  clerk,  a  portion- 
less orphan,  was  in  his  ideal  scheme,  the  future  husband  of 
Virginie,  his  eldest  daughter.  But  Joseph  did  not  share  the 
symmetrical  notions  of  his  patron,  who  would  not,  for  an 
empire,  have  married  his  second  daughter  before  the  first. 
The  unhappy  clerk  felt  that  his  heart  was  entirely  wrapped  up 
in  Mademoiselle  Augustine,  the  younger  daughter.  In  order  to 
justify  this  passion,  which  had  secretly  acquired  strength,  we 
must  penetrate  a  little  deeper  into  the  springs  of  the  absolute 
government  that  ruled  the  establishment  of  the  old  draper. 

Guillaume  had  two  daughters.  The  eldest.  Mademoiselle 
Virginie,  was  the  exact  portrait  of  her  mother.  Madam 
Guillaume,  the  daughter  of  M.  Chevrel,  used  to  sit  so  upright 
upon  the  bench  behind  her  counter,  that  she  had  more  than 
once  heard  some  wags  bet  that  she  was  empaled  there.  Her 
long;  thin  face  showed  siarns  of  boundless  sanctimoniousness. 


IG  BALZAC. 

Ungraceful  in  person,  unengaging  in  manner,  Madame  Guil- 
laume  habitually  adorned  her  head,  which  had  weathered  sixty 
winters,  with  a  cap  of  inflexible  design  and  trimmed  with 
weepers  like  that  of  a  widow.  She  was  known  to  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood as  "  the  messenger  nun."  Her  language  was  concise, 
and  her  gestures  recalled  the  jerky  movements  of  a  telegraph. 
Her  eye,  clear  as  that  of  a  cat,  seemed  to  seek  revenge  from 
every  one  for  its  owner's  ugliness,  Madamoiselle  Virginie, 
who,  like  her  younger  sister,  had  been  brought  up  under  the 
domestic  rule  of  her  mother,  was  now  twenty-eight.  Her 
youth  softened  the  ungraceful  caste  of  countenance  which  her 
resemblance  to  her  mother  sometimes  lent  to  her  features ; 
but  the  maternal  strictness  had  endowed  her  with  two  great 
qualities  which  might  serve  as  a  set-off  against  all  defects  ;  she 
was  gentle  and  patient.  Her  sister.  Mademoiselle  Augustine, 
was  barely  eighteen ;  she  bore  no  likeness  either  to  fatiicr  or 
mother.  She  was  one  of  those  girls  who,  from  the  absence  of 
all  physical  bonds  between  them  and  their  parents,  support  the 
old  maids'  sayings  that  children  are  the  gift  of  God.  Augustine 
was  small,  or  better  to  describe  her,  little;  and  so  full  of  sim- 
plicity and  grace  that  a  man  of  the  world  could  find  no  fault 
in  her  except  that  her  gestures,  and  sometimes  her  attitudes, 
were  somewhat  common,  and  that  she  was  not  perfectly  free 
from  constraint.  Her  still  and  silent  features  were  suffused 
with  that  transient  melancholy  which  seizes  all  young  girls  who 
lack  strength  to  oppose  a  mother's  will.  The  plainness  of  their 
dress  always  prevented  the  two  sisters  from  satisfying  the  innate 
coquetry  of  woman,  except  by  displaying  a  luxury  of  neatness 
which  became  them  admirably  and  introduced  an  admirable 
harmony  between  them  and  the  shining  counters  and  the 
shelves,  cleansed  by  the  old  servant  from  every  particle  of  dust, 
and  the  antique  simplicity  of  all  their  surroundings. 

Forced  by  their  mode  of  life  to  seek  the  elements  of  happi- 
ness in  unremitting  toil,  Augustine  and  Virginie  had  never 
given  cause  for  aught  but  satisfaction  to   their  mother,  who 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE.  17 

congratulated  htrself  in  secret  on  the  perfection  of  her  daugh- 
ters' characters.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  the  results  of  the 
education  which  they  had  received.  Brought  up  to  business, 
accustomed  to  hear  nought  but  discussions  and  calculations 
sombrely  commercial ;  grammar,  book-keeping,  Jewish  history, 
and  Rajou's  history  of  France,  their  only  studies ;  their  only 
reading,  books  approved  by  their  mother;  the  ideas  of  the 
sisters  were  somewhat  narrow.  They  had  a  perfect  knowledge 
of  housekeeping,  were  familiar  with  the  prices  of  goods, 
understood  the  difficulty  of  making  a  fortune,  were  economi- 
cal, and  held  in  high  esteem  the  qualities  which  go  to  make 
a  man  of  business.  Notwithstanding  their  father's  wealth, 
they  could  darn  a  stocking  as  well  as  make  a  wreath ;  their 
mother  often  talked  about  teaching  them  cookery,  in  order 
that  they  might  know  how  to  order  a  dinner  and  scold  a  cook 
secundum  artem.  Ignorant  of  the  pleasures  of  the  world,  and 
observing  how  placidly  the  exemplary  lives  of  their  parents 
glided  on,  they  very  seldom  cast  a  glance  beyond  the  precincts 
of  the  old  paternal  house,  which  was  their  mother's  universe. 
The  whole  future  of  their  terrestrial  pleasures  consisted  in 
the  social  gatherings  to  which  their  family  fete-days  gave  rise. 
When  the  large  drawing-room  on  the  second-floor  was  about 
to  receive  Madame  Roguin,  a  Mademoiselle  Chevrel  fifteen 
years  younger  than  her  cousin  and  who  wore  diamonds,  young 
Rabourdin,  under-secretary  in  the  Financial  Department, 
Monsieur  Ce'sar  Birotteau  a  rich  perfumer  and  his  wife,  who 
went  by  the  name  of  Madame  Cdsar,  Monsieur  Camusot,  the 
wealthiest  silk  merchant  in  the  Rue  des  Bourdonnais,  his 
father-in-law  Monsieur  Cardot,  two  or  three  old  bankers,  and 
some  ladies  of  spotless  virtue;  the  preparations  necessitated 
by  the  manner  in  which  the  plate,  the  Saxony  porcelain,  the 
candles  and  the  crystals  were  packed  up,  introduced  some 
diversion  into  the  monotonous  existence  of  these  three  women. 
They  trotted  about  and  became  as  excited  as  a  parcel  of  nuns 
when  they  are  about  to  receive  their  bishop.    And  then,  when 

B 


18  BALZAC. 

in  the  evening  they  were  all  three  worn  out  with  dusting, 
rubbing,  and  unpacking,  Madame  Guillaume  would  say  to  the 
girls  as  they  helped  her  to  undress,  "  We  have  done  nothing 
to-day,  my  children."  It  would  sometimes  happen  upon  these 
solemn  occasions  that  "the  messenger  nun"  would  allow 
dancing,  and  confine  the  boston  whist  and  backgammon  par- 
ties to  her  bedroom.  Such  a  concession  was  regarded  as  a 
most  unlooked-for  piece  of  happiness,  and  caused  a  joy  not 
less  than  that  of  going  to  the  two  or  three  grand  carnival 
balls  to  which  M.  Guillaume  duly  conducted  his  daughters. 
And  then  once  a  year  the  honest  draper  gave  an  entertainment 
for  which  he  spared  no  expense.  The  persons  invited,  how- 
ever wealthy  and  fashionable  they  might  be,  took  care  to  be 
present ;  for  the  most  important  houses  in  the  neighborhood 
had  recourse  to  the  large  fortune,  vast  credit,  and  matured 
experience  of  M.  Guillaume.  But  the  two  girls  of  the  worthy 
tradesman  did  not  derive  so  much  advantage  as  might  be 
supposed  from  the  instruction  which  the  world  offers  to  the 
young.  The  meanness  of  the  dresses  which  they  wore  at 
these  festivals  (which  by  the  way  were  carried  to  the  profit 
and  loss  account  of  the  house)  made  them  feel  ashamed. 
They  had  no  particular  turn  for  dancing,  and  their  mother's 
watchful  eye  precluded  them  from  holding  with  their  partners 
any  conversation  beyond  yes  and  no.  Then  the  law  of  the 
old  sign  of  the  Chat-qui-pelote  compelled  them  to  go  home  at 
eleven  o'clock,  the  very  moment  when  the  ball  and  festive 
meetings  begin  to  grow  animated.  Thus  their  diversions, 
seemingly  in  conformity  with  the  fortune  of  their  father,  often 
became  insipid  through  circumstances  connected  with  the 
habits  and  principles  of  the  establishment. 

As  to  the  routine  of  their  daily  existence,  a  single  observa- 
tion will  describe  it.  Madame  Guillaume  required  her  daugh- 
ters to  be  dressed  very  early  in  the  morning,  to  put  in  an 
appearance  at  the  same  hour  every  day,  and  subjected  their 
employments  to  a  monastic  regularity.      Chance,  however, 


THE  CAT  AND   BATTLEDORE.  19 

had  given  to  Augustine  a  mind  sufficiently  elcN-ated  to  feel 
the  emptiness  of  such  an  existence.  Her  blue  eyes  would  at 
times  be  raised  as  if  to  interrogate  the  depths  of  the  dark 
staircase,  and  the  damp  warerooms ;  after  having  sounded  that 
cloistral  silence,  she  seemed  as  it  were  to  listen  to  the  confused 
revelations  of  that  passionate  existence  which  places  senti- 
ments on  a  higher  level  than  things.  At  such  moments  her 
face  would  flush,  her  listless  hand  would  drop  the  muslin  on 
the  polished  oaken  counter,  and  soon  her  mother's  voice,  which 
retained  its  native  harshness  even  in  its  mildest  tones,  would 
be  heard  exclaiming, — 

"Augustine,  what  are  you  thinking  about,  my  treasure?" 
It  may  be  that  "  Hippolyte  Comte  de  Douglas"  and  "  Le 
Comte  de  Commingues,"  two  novels  recently  discovered  by 
Augustine  in  the  chest  of  drawers  of  a  cook  recently  dismissed 
bv  Madame  Guillaume  had  contributed  to  the  development  of 
the  young  girl,  who  had  positively  devoured  them  during  the 
long  nights  of  the  preceding  winter. 

These  manifestations  of  vague  desire,  the  sweet  voice,  the 
jasmine  skin  and  blue  eyes  of  Augustine  had  then  kindled  in 
the  heart  of  poor  Lebas  a  passion  as  violent  as  it  was  respect- 
ful. Through  a  very  intelligible  caprice  Augustine  did  not 
feel  the  slightest  penchant  for  the  orphan;  perhaps  because 
she  was  unconscious  that  he  loved  her.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  long  legs,  chestnut  hair,  large  hands,  and  vigorous  frame 
of  the  chief  clerk  had  found  a  secret  admirer  in  Mademoiselle 
Virginie,  who,  spite  of  her  portion  of  ;!^6,ooo,  was  not  sought 
by  any  one.  Nothing  could  be  more  natural  than  these  two 
cross-purpose  passions  bom  amid  the  silence  of  that  obscure 
counter,  just  as  the  violets  bloom  in  the  deep  woods.  The 
mute  and  constant  observation  which  through  a  violent  desire 
for  diversion  amid  that  unceasing  toil  and  that  religious  calm, 
chained  the  eyes  of  these  young  people  upon  one  another,  was 
certain  sooner  or  later  to  excite  love.     To  have  a  face  con- 


20  BALZAC. 

stantly  before  our  eyes  leads  us  to  trace  in  it  the  feelings  of 
the  heart,  and  ends  by  obliterating  its  defects. 

"  At  the  rate  at  which  this  man  is  travelling,"  said  M.  Guil- 
laume  to  himself  as  he  read  the  first  decree  whereby  Napoleon 
anticipated  the  classes  of  conscripts,  "  our  daughters  will  soon 
be  going  on  their  knees  to  a  sweetheart." 

And  from  that  day  forward,  grieved  to  the  heart  to  see  his 
daughter  fading,  the  old  shopkeeper  remembered  that  he  had 
married  Mademoiselle  Chevrel  when  their  relative  position  was 
very  much  like  that  of  Joseph  Lebas  and  Virginie.  It  would 
be  a  capital  stroke  of  business  to  get  his  daughter  married,  and 
at  the  same  time  discharge  a  sacred  debt  by  bestowing  on  an 
orphan  the  benefits  which  he  himself  had  formerly  received  at 
the  hands  of  his  predecessors,  under  similar  circumstances. 

Joseph  Lebas  however  was  thirty-three  years  of  age,  and  was 
turning  over  in  his  mind  the  difficulties  which  a  disparity  of 
fifteen  years  would  place  between  Augustine  and  him.  He  was, 
moreover,  too  clear  sighted  not  to  guess  the  intention  of  M. 
Guillaume,  and  he  was  sufficiently  well  acquainted  with  his 
inexorable  principles  to  know  that  the  younger  sister  would 
never  be  allowed  to  marry  until  the  elder  was  settled.  Thus, 
then,  the  poor  clerk  whose  heart  was  as  noble  as  his  legs  were 
long,  and  his  chest  deep,  suffered  in  silence. 

Such  was  the  condition  of  affairs  in  this  small  republic,  which, 
while  situated  in  the  middle  of  the  Rue  St.  Denis,  bore  a  close 
resemblance  to  a  chapel  of  ease  of  La  Trappe. 

But  in  order  to  give  an  exact  account  of  the  external  situation 
of  affairs  as  well  as  of  the  internal  feelings,  we  must  go  back  to 
some  months  before  the  opening  scene  of  the  story. 

It  was  nightfall  when  a  young  man  passing  before  the  diml3r 
lighted  shop  of  the  Chat-qui-pelote,  stood  still  for  a  moment  to 
contemplate  a  picture  which  would  have  arrested  the  attention 
of  any  painter  in  the  world.  The  shop,  as  yet  unilluminated, 
formed  a  black  foreground,  behind  which  was  to  be  seen  the 
shopkeeper's  dining-room,  over  which  an  astral  lamp  was  fling- 


THE  CAT  AND   BATTLEDORE.  21 

ing  that  yellow  light  which  gives  so  much  grace  to  pictures 
belonging  to  the  Dutch  school.  The  white  table-linen,  the 
plate  and  the  cut  glasses  formed  brilliant  accessories  to  the 
scene,  which  was  still  further  enhanced  by  the  keen  contrast  of 
light  and  shade.  The  face  of  the  father  of  the  family,  that  of 
his  wife,  the  countenances  of  the  clerks,  and  the  pure  outlines 
of  the  features  of  Augustine,  close  to  whom  stood  a  strapping 
red-faced  servant-girl,  all  these  together  formed  a  group  so 
f\  striking ;  the  heads  were  so  original,  and  each  character  was  so 
frankly  expressed  on  the  features ;  while  the  peaceful,  quiet^ 
modest  life  of  the  family  was  so  clearly  to  be  gathered  from  the 
scene ;  that  an  artist  accustomed  to  paint  from  nature  might 
well  experience  a  desperate  desire  to  reproduce  the  chance- 
begotten  picture. 

The  passenger  whose  gaze  was  thus  arrested  was  a  young 
painter  who  seven  years  before  had  gained  the  grand  prize  for 
painting. 

He  had  just  returned  from  Rome.  His  soul  that  had  been 
fed  on  poetry,  his  eyes  that  had  been  satiated  with  Raphael  and 
Michael  Angelo,  thirsted  for  genuine  nature  after  his  long 
sojourn  in  that  land  of  pomp,  over  every  part  of  which  Art  has 
thrown  her  majesty.  False  or  not,  such  was  his  personal  feel- 
ing on  the  subject.  His  heart  that  had  been  long  abandoned 
to  the  torrent  of  Italy's  impetuous  passion,  thirsted  for  one  of 
those  modest  and  retiring  maidens  which  at  Rome  he  had,  un- 
fortunately, found  only  upon  canvas. 

From  the  enthusiasm  to  which  the  natural  group  he  gazed 
on  gave  rise  in  his  excited  breast,  he  passed  by  a  natural  tran- 
sition to  a  profound  admiration  for  the  principal  figure. 
Augustine  seemed  pensive  and  was  not  eating ;  owing  to  the 
situation  of  the  lamp,  whose  light  fell  full  upon  her  face,  her 
whole  bust  seemed  to  move  in  a  circle  of  flame,  which  brought 
out  more  fully  the  contours  of  her  head  and  lighted  it  up  in  a 
manner  almost  supernatural.  Involuntarily  the  artist  compared 
her  to  an  angel  bethinking  herself  of  the  heaven  from  which 


22  BALZAC. 

she  had  been  banished.    A  sensation  almost  unknown  before — 
a  limpid  boiling  passion  deluged  his  bosom. 

After  remaining  for  a  moment  almost  crushed  beneath  the 
weight  of  his  ideas,  he  tore  himself  away  from  the  scene  of  his 
enjoyment  and  went  home — but  not  to  eat  and  not  to  sleep. 
The  next  day  he  shut  himself  in  his  studio  and  there  remained 
until  he  had  deposited  on  canvas  the  main  scene  whose  me- 
mory had  well-nigh  turned  him  into  a  fanatic.  His  happiness 
was  imperfect  so  long  as  he  was  without  a  faithful  portrait  of 
his  idol.  Several  times  did  he  pass  before  the  Chat-qui-pelote  j 
once  or  twice  he  even  had  the  hardihood  to  enter  the  shop  in 
disguise  in  order  to  obtain  a  nearer  view  of  the  enchanting 
creature  whom  Madame  Guillaume  covered  with  her  wing. 
During  eight  months,  slave  of  his  love  and  of  his  brushes,  he 
remained  invisible  to  his  most  intimate  friends;  the  world, 
poetry,  the  drama,  music  and  all  his  cherished  habits,  were 
forgotten. 

One  morning,  Girodet  broke  through  all  the  impediments  to 
admission  which  artists  know  and  can  ellude,  burst  in  on  him 
and  roused  him  with  the  question,  "  What  are  you  going  to 
exhibit  ?" 

The  artist  seized  his  friend's  hand,  dragged  him  to  the  studio 
and  uncovered  a  little  easel  picture  and  a  portrait. 

Girodet,  after  a  slow  but  eager  contemplation  of  the  two 
masterpieces,  threw  his  arms  round  his  comrade's  neck,  and 
silently  embraced  him.     His  feelings  could  not  be  expressed, 
save,  as  he  experienced  them,  from  heart  to  heart. 
I     "You  are  in  love?"  said  Girodet. 

They  both  knew  that  the  finest  portraits  of  Titian,  Raphael 
and  Leonardo  da  Vinci  were  the  offspring  of  excited  feelings, 
which,  under  varying  conditions,  are  the  source  of  every  kind 
of  masterpiece.  The  young  artist  replied  to  the  interrogation 
only  by  a  movement  of  the  head. 

"  Happy  mortal,  to  be  in  love  here  after  returning  from 
Italy  I     I  would  not  advise  you,"  added  the  great  painter,  "  to 


THE  CAT  AND   BATTLEDORK  23 

exhibit  such  works  as  these  ;  for,  look  you,  these  two  pictures 
will  not  be  understood.  These  true  colors,  this  prodigious 
labor  cannot  as  yet  be  appreciated ;  the  public  are  not  accus- 
tomed to  so  much  depth.  The  pictures  which  we  paint,  my 
good  friend,  are  fire-screens  and  door-screens.  Yes,  let  us 
rather  write  verses  and  translate  the  ancients,  we  shall  reap 
more  glory  from  that  than  from  our  miserable  pictures." 

In  spite  of  this  charitable  advice  the  pictures  were  exhibited. 
The  picture  representing  the  interior  created  a  revolution  in 
painting.  It  gave  rise  to  those  pictures  of  "  genre  "  which,  to 
judge  from  the  prodigious  number  of  them  imported  into  all  our 
exhibitions,  must,  one  would  imagine,  be  produced  by  a 
purely  mechanical  process.  As  for  the  portrait,  very  few  artists 
can  have  forgotten  that  living  canvas  to  which  the  public,  which 
is  occasionally  just,  as  a  body,  assigned  the  crown  that  Girodet 
himself  had  awarded.  The  two  pictures  were  surrounded  by 
an  immense  crowd.  There  was  a  death  struggle  to  get  to  them, 
as  the  women  say.  Enterprising  purchasers  and  aristocratic 
magnates  covered  the  pictures  with  double  Napoleons,  but  the 
artist  resolutely  refused  to  sell  them  or  to  make  copies  of 
them.  He  was  offered  an  enormous  sum  for  permission  to 
engrave  them,  but  the  men  of  business  were  as  unsuccessful  as 
the  amateurs  had  been. 

Now,  although  this  adventure  engaged  the  attention  of  the 
world,  it  was  not  of  a  kind  to  penetrate  to  tLe  little  Thebais  of 
the  Rue  St.  Denis.  Yet  it  so  happened  that  the  notary's  wife, 
during  a  visit  to  Madame  Guillaume,  mentioned  the  exhibition 
in  the  presence  of  Augustine,  of  whom  she  was  very  fond,  and 
explained  to  her  its  object.  The  chatter  of  Madame  Roguin 
naturally  inspired  Augustine  with  the  desire  to  see  the  pictures, 
and  the  boldness  to  ask  her  cousin  in  secret  to  take  her  to  the 
Louvre.  The  cousin  succeeded  in  the  negotiation  which  she 
set  on  foot  in  order  to  obtain  Madame  Guillaume's  consent 
to  withdraw  her  young  cousin  from  her  melancholy  toils  foj 
about  two  hours,  and  so  the  young  girl  made  her  way  through 


24  BALZAC. 

the  crowd  and  reached  the  prize  picture.  She  trembled  like  a 
birch  leaf  when  she  recognized  her  own  likeness.  She  was 
frightened,  and  looked  round  in  order  to  find  her  way  back  to 
Madame  Roguin,  from  whom  she  was  separated  by  a  crowd  ©f 
people.  At  that  moment  her  frightened  eyes  encountered 
the  excited  face  of  the  young  painter.  She  at  once  recalled 
the  features  of  a  pedestrian  whom  in  her  curiosity  she  had  often 
remarked,  taking  him  for  a  new  Reighbor. 

"  You  see  what  love  has  inspired  me  to  do,"  whispered  the 
artist  to  the  timid  creature,  who  was  quite  frightened  at  his 
words. 

She  summoned  up  a  supernatural  courage  to  pierce  the 
crowd  and  rejoin  her  cousin,  who  was  still  busy  trying  to  pen- 
etrate the  mass  of  people,  who  kept  her  at  a  distance  from  the 
picture. 

"You  would  be  stifled  if  you  got  there,"  said  Augustine. 
"  Let  us  go." 

But  there  are  certain  moments  at  the  Exhibition  when  two 
women  are  not  always  at  liberty  to  direct  their  steps  in  the 
galleries  as  they  would.  Madamoiselle  Guillaume  and  her 
cousin  were  pushed  to  some  little  distance  from  the  second 
picture  by  virtue  of  the  irregular  pressure  of  the  crowd.  As 
chance  would  have  it,  they  found  an  easy  access  to  the  picture 
which  fashion,  for  once  in  unison  with  the  world  of  artists,  had 
distinguished.  The  exclamation  of  surprise  which  escaped 
from  the  wife  of  the  notary  was  lost  among  the  hum  and  buzz- 
ing of  the  crowd ;  but  Augustine  shed  involuntary  tears  at 
sight  of  the  marvelous  scene.  Then,  actuated  by  an  almost 
inexplicable  sentiment,  she  placed  her  finger  on  her  lips  as  she 
caught  sight  of  the  ecstatic  face  of  the  young  artist  within  two 
feet  of  her.  The  stranger  responded  by  a  movement  of  the 
head  and  indicated  that  Madame  Roguin  was  de  trop,  in  order 
to  show  Augustine  that  she  was  understood.  This  pantomime 
was  like  a  furnace  to  the  young  girl,  who  looked  upon  herself 
as  a  criminal  at  the  idea  that  a  compact  had  just  been  entered 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE.  26 

into  between  her  and  the  artist.  The  stifling  heat,  the  con- 
stant sight  of  the  most  brilliant  costumes,  and  the  stupefaction 
which  Augustine  experienced  at  the  truth  of  the  colours,  the 
crowd  of  faces  on  canvas  or  alive,  and  the  profusion  of  gilt 
frames,  excited  in  the  girl  a  species  of  intoxication  which  re- 
doubled her  apprehensions.  She  would  perhaps  have  fainted, 
but  that  in  spite  of  this  chaos  of  sensations  she  felt  in  the 
depths  of  her  heart  a  rising  joy  that  gave  fresh  life  to  her  whole 
Irame.  At  the  same  time  she  believed  that  she  was  under  the 
empire  of  that  demon,  of  whose  fearful  snares  she  had  heard 
from  the  thundering  lips  of  the  preacher.  That  moment  was 
to  her  a  moment  of  madness.  She  found  herself  escorted  to 
the  carriage  of  her  aunt  by  the  young  painter,  buoyant  with 
happiness  and  love.  An  excitement  altogether  unknown,  an 
intoxication  which  in  some  sort  made  her  the  prey  of  her 
natural  feelings,  led  her  to  listen  to  the  eloquent  language  of 
her  heart,  and  several  times  she  cast  upon  the  young  painter  a 
glance  in  which  was  written  all  the  emotion  which  she  felt ; 
never  had  the  carnation  of  her  cheek  formed  a  more  striking 
contrast  with  the  whiteness  of  her  skin.  The  artist  then  beheld 
her  beauty  in  all  its  bloom,  her  modesty  in  all  its  glory. 
Augustine  experienced  a  mingled  sensation  of  joy  and  terror 
when  she  recognized  that  her  presence  was  the  source  of  the 
happiness  of  him  whose  name  was  on  every  lip  and  whose 
talent  conferred  immortality  upon  a  transient  image.  She 
was  beloved ;  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  that.  When  the 
artist  was  no  longer  in  her  presence,  the  simple  words,  "  You 
see  what  love  has  inspired  me  to  do,"  still  found  an  echo  in 
her  heart,  and  its  yet  deeper  palpitations  seemed  to  her  quite 
painful ;  so  great  were  the  unknown  powers  stirred  within  her 
by  her  now  more  ardent  blood.  She  feigned  a  violent  head- 
ache in  order  that  she  might  avoid  answering  the  questions  of 
her  cousin  about  the  pictures ;  but  when  they  got  back  to  the 
house,  Madame  Roguin  could  not  keep  herself  from  speaking 
to  Madame  Guillaume  of  the  celebrity  which  the  Chat-qui-pelote 


26  BALZAC. 

had  acquired,  and  Augustine  trembled  in  every  limb  when  she 
heard  her  mother  announce  her  intention  to  go  to  the  Exhibition 
to  see  her  own  house.  The  young  girl  renewed  her  complaints 
and  was  allowed  to  go  to  bed.  "  Yes,  that  is  just  what  one 
gets  by  going  to  see  these  sights — headaches,"  said  M,  Guil- 
laume ;  "  It  is  so  very  amusing  to  see  on  a  piece  of  canvas  what 
you  can  see  every  day  in  our  street.  Don't  talk  to  me  about 
your  artists,  they  are  just  like  your  authors — starvation  birds. 
Why  the  devil  do  they  want  to  take  my  house  and  vilipend  it 
in  their  pictures  ?  " 

"  It  may  lead  to  our  selling  a  few  more  ells  of  cloth,"  said 
Joseph  Lebas.  But  spite  of  this  observation,  art  and  thought 
were,  once  again  found  guilty  at  the  tribunal  of  commerce.  It 
may  well  be  supposed  that  such  conversation  as  this  did  not 
greatly  raise  the  hopes  of  Augustine,  who,  during  the  night 
resigned  herself  to  her  first  love  meditation.  The  events  of 
the  day  were  like  a  dream,  which  it  pleased  her  to  reproduce 
in  thought.  She  underwent  her  apprenticeship  to  those  fears, 
those  hopes,  and  that  remorse,  to  all  those  undulations  of 
feeling,  by  which  a  heart  so  simple  and  so  timid  as  hers  must 
needs  be  swayed.  What  a  void  she  now  discovered  in  that 
dark  dwelling  !  what  a  treasure  she  discovered  in  her  heart ! 
To  be  the  wife  of  a  man  of  talent,  to  share  his  glory ;  what 
ravages  must  such  a  thought  create  in  the  heart  of  a  child 
nurtured  in  the  bosom  of  such  a  family  !  What  hopes  did 
the  idea  awaken  in  a  young  woman  who,  educated  as  yet  on 
vulgar  principles,  had  nevertheless  wished  for  a  life  of  elegance. 
A  ray  of  light  had  lighted  up  the  prison,  and  all  at  once 
Augustine  loved.  In  her  case  so  many  feelings  were  gratified 
at  once  that  she  succumbed  without  a  single  calculation.  At 
the  age  of  eighteen  love  throws  its  prism  between  the  eyes  of 
a  young  girl  and  the  world.  Without  an  inkling  of  the  stern 
realities  which  result  from  the  union  of  a  loving  woman  with  a 
man  of  imagination,  she  believed  herself  called  upon  to  confer 
happiness  on  her  artist,  without  perceiving  any  disparity  be- 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE,  27 

tween  herself  and  him.  To  her  the  present  was  the  whole 
future. 

When,  on  the  morrow,  Augustine's  father  and  mother  re- 
turned from  the  Exhibition,  their  faces  showed  that  they  had 
sustained  some  disappointment.  In  the  first  place,  the  two 
pictures  had  been  removed,  and  in  the  second,  Madame  Guil- 
laume  had  lost  her  Cashmere  shawl.  When  Augustine  heard 
of  the  disappearance  of  the  paintings,  following  her  visit  to 
*the  exhibition,  she  saw  in  it,  that  delicacy  of  sentiment  which 
women  always  appreciate,  even  instinctively. 

The  morning  on  which,  on  his  returning  from  a  ball,  Theo- 
dore de  Sommervieux,  for  that  was  the  name  which  renown 
had  carried  to  Augustine's  ear,  was  sprinkled  by  the  clerks  of 
the  Chat-qui-pelote,  as  he  waited  for  the  appearance  of  his 
simple  mistress,  who  certainly  was  unconscious  of  his  presence, 
was  the  fourth  occasion  only,  on  which  the  two  lovers  had  seen 
each  other,  since  the  scene  which  had  taken  place  at  the 
Exhibition.  The  obstacles  which  the  regime  of  the  Guillaume 
establishment  opposed  to  the  fiery  temper  of  the  artist,  gave 
to  his  passion  for  Augustine  a  violence  that  may  readily  be 
imagined.  How  was  it  possible  to  accost  a  young  girl  seated 
at  a  counter  between  two  such  women  as  Virginie  and  Madame 
Guilluame  ?  How  could  he  correspond  with  her  when  her 
mother  never  left  her  ?  With  that  skill  in  creating  imaginary 
troubles  which  every  lover  displays,  Theodore  made  one  of 
the  clerks  his  rival,  and  made  the  others  his  accomplices. 
Could  he  deceive  so  many  Arguses,  he  saw  himself  discovered 
by  the  severe  eyes  of  the  old  shopkeeper  and  Madame  Guil- 
laume. Everywhere  were  barriers,  everywhere  despair.  The 
very  vehemence  of  the  young  painter's  passion  prevented  him 
from  hitting  upon  those  ingenious  expedients,  which  with 
prisoners  as  with  lovers,  seem  to  be  the  last  effort  of  reason 
stirred  by  the  savage  thirst  for  liberty,  or  by  the  fire  of  love. 

Theodore  patrolled  the  neighborhood  with  the  restlessness 
of  a  madman,  as  if  motion   might  suggest  devices.      After 


28  BALZAC. 

having  thoroughly  tortured  his  brain,  it  occurred  to  him  to 
bribe  the  blowsy  servant.  Thus  it  happened  that  sundry 
letters  were  exchanged  at  distant  intervals  during  the  fortnight 
which  followed  the  unlucky  morning  on  which  M.  Guillaume 
and  Theodore'  had  examined  each  other  with  such  minute 
attention. 

At  the  period  at  which  our  story  has  now  arrived,  the  two 
young  people  had  agreed  to  see  each  other  at  a  certain  hour 
every  weekday,  and  on  Sunday  at  St.  Leu  during  mass  and 
vespers.  Augustine  had  sent  her  beloved  Theodore  a  list  of  the 
relations  and  friends  of  the  family;  andto  these  the  young 
painter  tried  to  get  introduced  in  order  to  engage,  if  possible, 
in  the  interest  of  his  love,  one  of  these  hearts  to  which  money 
and  business  were  the  be-all  and  the  end-all,  and  a  genuine 
passion,  a  most  monstrous,  and  a  most  unheard-of  speculation. 
For  the  rest,  the  habits  of  the  inmates  of  the  Chat-qui-pelote 
had  undergone  no  change.  If  Augustine  was  preoccupied,  if 
in  violation  of  all  obedience  to  the  law  of  the  domestic  charter, 
she  went  up  to  her  bedroom  to  establish,  by  means  of  a  pot  of 
flowers,  signals  with  her  lover ;  if  she  sighed,  if  indeed  she 
thought,  no  one,  not  even  her  motlier,  noticed  it.  This  cir- 
cumstance may  cause  some  surprise  to  those  who  have  seized 
the  pervading  spirit  of  this  house,  where  any  idea  tainted  with 
poetry  must  necessarily  be  in  opposition  to  its  inmates  and  its 
furniture ;  where  no  one  could  indulge  in  a  gesture  or  a  look 
that  were  not  seen  and  analyzed.  And  yet  nothing  could  be 
more  natural ;  for  the  tranquil  vessel  which  sailed  the  stormy 
sea  of  the  Exchange  of  Paris  under  the  flag  of  the  Chat-qui- 
pelote,  was  at  this  time  the  prey  of  one  of  those  gales  which 
from  the  periodicity  of  their  return  we  may  style  equinoctial. 
For  the  last  five  days  the  five  men  who  constituted  the  crew, 
Madame  Guillaume  and  Mademoiselle  Virginie,  had  been 
engaged  in  that  engrossing  toil,  which  is  called  stock-taking. 
Every  package  was  turned  over,  and  the  measure  of  every 
piece  was  taken,  in  order  to  ascertain  the  exact  value  of  the 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE.  29 

remnant  The  ticket  affixed  to  each  parcel  was  carefully 
examined,  in  order  to  fix  the  date  when  the  cloth  was  purchased. 
The  exact  price  was  determined.  Ever  on  foot,  with  his  ell- 
wand in  his  hand,  M.  Guillaume  resembled  a  captain  giving 
orders  as  to  the  conduct  of  the  vessel.  His  shrill  voice  echo- 
ing through  a  loophole  in  interrogation  of  the  deeps  that  lay 
beneath  the  hatchways  of  the  lower  shop,  gave  forth  those 
barbarous  commercial  phrases  which  can  only  be  expressed  by 
enigmatic  signs.  "How  much  of  H.N.Z.  ?"  "All  gone." 
"  What  left  of  Q.X.  ?"  "  Two  ells."  "  What  price  ?  "  "  Five 
five  three  "  "  Put  all  J.  J.,  all  M.P.,  and  the  residue  of  V.D.O. 
in  three  A. ;"  and  a  thousand  other  phrases  equally  intelligible, 
rumbled  over  the  counters,  like  the  lines  of  some  modem 
poem  recited  by  the  votaries  of  the  Romantic  School  in  order 
to  keep  alive  their  enthusiasm  for  one  of  their  poets.  In  the 
evening  Guillaume  shut  himself  up  with  his  chief  clerk  and 
his  wife,  paid  accounts,  carried  them  over,  wrote  to  delinquents, 
and  jotted  up  invoices.  All  three  of  them  took  part  in  the 
immense  labor  whose  result  contained  in  a  simple  sheet  of 
foolscap — proved  to  the  house  of  Guillaume  that  it  was  worth 
so  much  in  cash,  so  much  in  goods,  so  much  in  drafts  and 
bills  J  that  it  did  not  owe  a  farthing  ;  that  it  was  a  creditor  to 
the  amoun  of  from  four  to  eight  thousand  pounds ;  that  its 
capital  had  increased,  and  that  its  farms  were  to  be  increased, 
houses  repaired,  or  rents  doubled.  Whence  this  obvious  con- 
sequence— tha  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  begin  with 
redoubled  ardour  the  task  of  piling  crown  on  crown.  Never 
did  it  occur  to  those  brave  ants  to  ask  themselves  the  question 
— Cut  bono  7 

Under  cover  of  this  annual  commotion  the  happy  Augustine 
escaped  the  scrutiny  of  her  Arguses.  At  length  one  Saturday 
evening  the  stock-taking  came  to  an  end.  The  sum  total  of 
the  credits  showed  a  sufficient  number  of  cyphers  to  induce  M. 
Guillaume  under  the  circumstances  to  suspend  the  severe 
restriction  which  reigned  throughout  the  year — ^as  to  dessert. 


30  BALZAC. 

The  wily  draper  rubbed  his  hands  and  allowed  his  clerks  to 
remain  at  table.  Scarcely  had  each  member  of  the  crew  finish, 
ed  his  little  glass  of  home-made  liqueur  when  the  roll  of  carriage- 
wheels  was  heard.  The  family  was  going  to  see  Cinderella  at 
the  Varidtds,  while  the  two  junior  clerks  received  each  a  double 
crown  piece,  with  permission  to  go  where  they  liked,  provided 
always  that  they  were  home  by  twelve  o'clock. 

In  spite  of  this  debauch,  the  old  draper  was  busy  at  six  o'clock 
next  n\orning,  shaving  himself,  incasing  himself  in  his  maroon- 
colored  coat,  from  whose  splendor  he  always  derived  the 
same  amount  of  satisfaction,  and  fastening  the  golden  buckles 
of  his  velvet  breeches.  At  seven  o'clock,  while  all  was  still 
silent  throughout  the  house,  he  directed  his  steps  to  the  little 
cabinet  attached  to  his  first  floor  shop.  This  cabinet  wat, 
lighted  by  a  window  protected  by  strong  iron  bars,  and  looking 
on  a  little  square  court  whose  walls  were  so  black  that  it  looked 
like  a  well.  The  old  tradesman  opened  with  his  own  Iiand 
the  iron-plated  shutters  which  he  knew  so  well,  and  raised  one 
half  of  the  glazed  framework  of  the  window.  The  chilly  air  of 
the  court  rushed  in  and  cooled  the  heated  atmosphere  of  the 
cabinet,  which  was  redolent  of  that  odor  which  is  peculiar  to 
offices.  Upright  he  stood,  with  his  hand  resting  on  the  greasy 
arm  of  a  cane  chair  covered  with  morocco  whose  original  color 
had  disappeared.  He  seemed  to  hesitate  about  sitting  down. 
As  he  looked  at  the  bureau  with  its  double  desk,  near  which 
his  wife's  seat  was  placed  in  a  little  arch  let  into  the  wall,  op- 
posite to  his  own  seat,  his  features  softened.  He  looked  at  the 
numbered  boxes,  thj  bands,  the  utensils,  the  branding  irons, 
and  the  cash  box — objects  of  immemorial  origin,  .nd  seemed 
to  feel  the  shadowy  presence  of  the  deceased  Chevrel.  ia 
pushed  forward  the  very  stool  on  which  he  used  himself  to  sit 
in  the  presence  of  his  departed  patron.  This  tool,  -overed 
with  black  leather,  and  whose  horsehair  stuffing  had  long  since 
been  exposed  though  without  actually  escaping,  he  placed 
with  trembling  hand  upon  the  very  spot  where  his  predecessor 


THE  CAT  AND   BATILEDOKE.  SI 

had  placed  it.     Then  with  an  agitation  dii."cult  .o  describe,  he 
pulled  the  bell-rope  which  communicated  with  the  bedhead  of 
Joseph  Lebas.     When  this  decisive  blow  had  been  struck,  the 
old  man  whose  reminiscences  were  undoubtedly  too  overpower- 
ing, took  up  two  or  three  bills  of  exchange  which  had  been 
presented  to  him,  and  gazed  at  them,  though  without  really 
seeing  them,  when  Joseph  Lebas  suddenly  appeared. 
"  Sit  down  there,"  said  Guillaume,  pointing  to  the  stool. 
As  this  was  the  first  time  that  the  old  master-draper  had  ever 
made  his  clerk  sit  down  in  his  presence,  Joseph  Lebas  trembled. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  these  drafts  ?"  asked  Guillaume. 
"  They  won't  be  paid." 
"Why?" 

"  Oh,  I  heard  that  Etienne  and  Co.  were  paying  in  gold  he 
da^  before  yesterday  " 

"Ah,  ah!"  cried  the  draper;  "people  must  be  very  sick 
when  they  show  their  bile.  Let  us  change  the  subject  Joseph, 
the  stock-taking  is  finished." 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  the  dividend  is  one  of  the  best  you  ever  nad.' 
"  Don't  use  those  newfangled  words,  say  *  the  product,' 
Joseph.  Do  you  know,  my  lad,  that  it  is  in  some  measure  to 
vou  that  we  owe  tliese  results  ?  which  being  so,  I  don't  wish  to 
pay  you  by  salary  any  longer.  Madame  Guillaume  has  sug- 
gested to  me  the  idea  of  offering  you  a  share — there,  Joseph  ! 
Guillaume  and  Lebas  won't  sound  badly  as  the  name  of  ?  firm, 
will  they  '  We  might  add  *  and  company'  to  round  the  signa- 
ture." 

Tears  stood  m  Joseph's  eyes,  but  he  made  an  effort  to  con- 
ceal them.  "  Ah,  M.  Guillaume  !  what  have  I  done  to  deserve 
such  goodness  ?  I  do  only  my  duty.  It  was  no  slight  matter 
fo   you  to  take  an  interest  in  a  poor  orph — " 

He  began  to  brush  the  braid  of  his  left  sleeve  with  the  right, 
and  dared  not  look  at  the  old  man,  who  smiled  at  the  thought 
that  the  modest  youth,  like  himself  in  former  days,  required  to 
be  encouraged  to  render  the  explanation  complete. 


32  BALZAC. 

"  But  at  the  same  time,"  resumed  the  father  of  Virginie, 
"  ycu  have  no  great  title  to  this  favor,  Joseph,  x  ou  are  not 
so  frank  with  me  as  I  am  with  you."  (At  these  words  the  clerk 
briskly  raised  his  head.)  "You  know  tne  secrets  of  the  strong 
box.  During  the  last  two  years  I  have  told  you  nearly  all  my 
affairs.  In  short,  I  have  concealed  nothmg  from  you.  But  as 
for  you — you  have  a  certain  predilection,  and  nave  not  said  a 
single  word  to  me  about  it."  (Joseph  Lebas  blushed.)  "  Ah, 
ah  !"  cried  Guillaume;  "  did  you  think  you  could  deceive  an 
old  fox  like  me — me,  who,  to  your  knowledge,  smelt  the  Lecocq 
failure?" 

"What,  sir,"  answered  Joseph  Lebas,  examinmg  nis  patron 
as  carefully  as  his  patron  examined  him,  "  you  know  whom  I 
love?" 

"I  know  all,  you  good-for-nothing  fellow  !"  said  the  worthy 
and  crafty  tradesman,  tweaking  the  end  of  Lebas'  ear,  "  and  I 
forgive  you.     I  did  just  what  you  have  done." 

"And  you  will  give  her  to  me?" 

"  Yes,  with  a  portion  of  ;^6ooo,  and  will  leave  you  as  much 
more,  and  we  will  embark  upon  fresh  enterprises  under  a  new 
firm.  We  will  brew  some  more  business  yet,  lad,"  cried  the 
old  shopkeeper,  rising  and  flinging  his  arms  about  "  Look 
you,  son-in-law,  there  is  nothing  like  business.  Those  who 
want  to  know  what  pleasure  one  can  find  in  it,  are  idiots.  To 
be  on  the  track  of  what  is  going  on,  to  know  how  to  take  the 
lead  on  'Change,  to  wait  anxiously  as  if  one  were  at  the  gaming- 
table, to  see  whether  6tienne  and  Company  turn  bankrupt  or 
not ;  to  see  a  regiment  of  the  imperial  guard  dressed  in  our 
cloth  pass  by,  to  trip  up  (in  all  honesty,  be  it  understood)  one's 
neighbor;  to  produce  cheaper  than  others;  to  follow  up  a 
scheme  from  its  first  rough  sketch — as  it  begins,  grows,  falters, 
and  succeeds ;  to  know,  just  like  a  minister  of.  police,  all  the 
secret  springs  of  commercial  houses,  in  order  not  to  take 
the  wrong  road,  to  keep  one's  feet  when  others  go  to  wreck  and 
ruin ;  to  have  correspondents  in  every  manufacturing  to^n : 


THE  CAT  AND   BATTLEDORE.  33 

isn't  this  a  continual  game,  Joseph  ?  That  is  what  I  call  life. 
I  shall  die  amid  this  bustle  as  old  Chevrel  did — but  still  taking 
things  easily." 

In  the  heat  of  the  longest  impromptu  he  had  ever  indulged 
in,  Father  Guillaume  had  scarcely  looked  at  his  clerk,  who  was 
shedding  scalding  tears,  "  Why,  Joseph,  my  good  lad,  what  is 
the  matter?" 

"  Oh,  I  love  her  so  dearly,  M.  Guillaume,  that  my  heart  fails 
me.     I  believe — " 

"Well,  my  lad,"  said  the  tradesman,  who  was  touched, 
"  you  are  more  lucky  than  you  imagine,  by  Jove ;  for  she  loves 
you  !  I  know  it !"  and  he  winked  his  small  green  eyes  as  he 
looked  at  his  clerk. 

"Mademoiselle  Augustine,  Mademoiselle  Augustine  1"  cried 
Joseph  Lebas,  in  his  enthusiasm. 

He  was  about  to  rush  out  of  the  cabinet,  when  he  felt  himself 
stopped  by  an  arm  of  iron,  and  his  astounded  patron  hastily 
placed  him  before  him  again. 

"  What  has  Augustine  to  do  with  this  business  ? "  asked 
Guillaume,  in  a  voice  which  instantly  froze  the  unfortunate 
Lebas. 

"  Is  it  not  she  .  .  .  whom  .  .  .  I  am  in  love  with  ?  " 
asked  the  stuttering  clerk. 

Guillaume,  disconcerted  at  his  own  want  of  perspicacity, 
resumed  his  seat  and  placed  his  piriform  head  on  his  two  hands, 
to  reflect  upon  the  strange  position  in  which  he  found  himself. 
Joseph  Lebas,  desperate  and  ashamed,  remained  upon  his  legs. 

"  Joseph,"  resumed  the  draper  with  frigid  dignity,  "  I  was 
talking  to  you  about  Virginie.  Love  cannot  be  commanded,  1 
well  know.  I  know  your  discretion,  we  will  forget  all  that.  I 
will  never  allow  Augustine  to  marry  before  Virginie;  your 
interest  in  the  business  will  be  ten  per  cent." 

The  clerk,  inspired  by  love,  with  almost  boundless  courage 
and  eloquence,  clasped  his  hands,  spoke  up,  and  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  discoursed* with  so  much  warmth  and  good  feeling, 
c 


SI  BALZ-iC. 

that  the  situation  changed.  If  this  had  been  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness, the  old  trader  would  have  had  certain  fixed  rules  to  .guide 
him  to  a  decision.  But  thrown  as  he  was  a  thousand  leagues 
out  of  the  domain  of  commerce,  and  afloal  without  compass 
upon  a  sea  of  sentiment,  he  drifte.i  irresolutely  before  an  event 
so  original,  as  he  termed  it.  Carried  away  by  his  fatherly 
affection  he  spoke  a  little  at  random. 

"  What  the  devil,  Joseph,  you  need  not  be  told  that  I  had 
my  two  children  at  an  interval  of  ten  years.  Mademoiselle 
Chevrel  was  not  handsome,  but  she  has  no  reason  to  complain 
of  my  conduct  to  her.  Do  as  I  did  before  you ;  give  over 
crying,  and  don't  be  stupid.  What  would  you  have  ?  the 
matter  will  perhaps  be  settled,  there  is  always  some  way  out 
of  a  scrape.  We  men  are  not  always  like  gingerbread  to  our 
wives, — do  you  take  me  ?  Madame  Guillaume  is  a  little  over, 
religious,  and — come  my  boy,  give  your  arm  to  Augustine  this 
morning  as  you  go  to  mass." 

Such  were  the  exclamations  which  Guillaume  randomly 
ejaculated.  The  conclusion  with  which  they  wound  up  threw 
the  enamoured  youth  into  ecstasies.  When  he  quitted  the 
smoky  little  cabinet,  after  having  squeezed  the  hand  of  his 
future  father-in-law,  and  proclaimed  with  a  little  look  of  intelli. 
gence  that  all  would  turn  out  f jr  the  best,  he  was  already  plann. 
ing  a  marriage  between  Mademoiselle  Virginie  and  one  of  his 
friends. 

"  What  will  Madame  Guillaume  think  of  it  ? "  Such  was 
the  idea  that  prodigiously  tormented  the  worthy  tradesman 
when  he  found  himself  alone. 

At  breakfast  Madame  Guillaume  and  Virginie,  whom  the 
draper  had  provisionally  left  in  the  dark  as  to  his  disappoint, 
ment,  looked  very  knowingly  at  Joseph  Lebas,  who  displayed 
grave  embarrassment.  The  modesty  of  the  clerk  made  a 
favorable  impression  upon  his  mother-in-law.  The  matron 
regained  so  much  of  her  youthful  gaiety  that  she  smiled  at  M. 
Guillaume,  nnd  indulged  in   some  oi  those   little  plensantiies 


THE  CAT  AND   BATTLEDORE.  35 

M'hichr  are  so  well  established  in  these  innocent  households. 
She  expressed  a  doubt  about  the  relative  heights  of  Virginia 
iind  Joseph,  in  order  to  get  them  to  stand  up  together.  This 
preliminary  trifling  produced  some  clouds  upon  the  brow  of 
the  head  of  the  family,  and  he  even  affected  such  a  passion  for 
decorum  as  to  tell  Augustine  to  take  the  chief  clerk's  arm  as 
they  went  to  St.  Leu.  Madame  Guillaume,  astonished  at  so 
much  delicacy  on  the  part  of  a  man,  honoured  her  husband 
with  an  approving  nod.  So  the  procession,  so  marshalled  as  to 
iifford  no  ground  for  the  mischevous  interpretation  of  the 
neighbours,  left  the  house. 

"  Don't  you  think,  Mademoiselle  Augustine,"  said  the 
trembling  clerk,  "  that  the  wife  of  a  tradesman  whose  credit  is 
staunch,  of  such  a  man  as  M.  Guillaume  for  example,  might 
allow  herself  a  little  more  amusement  than  Madame  Guillaume 
takes,  might  wear  diamonds,  keep  a  carriage  ?  For  my  own 
part,  if  I  married,  I  should  like  to  take  all  the  trouble  on  my 
own  shoulders  and  see  my  wife  enjoy  herself.  I  should  not 
put  her  in  my  counting-house.  For,  you  see,  in  the  cloth-trade, 
woman  are  not  wanted  as  they  were  in  former  times.  M_ 
Guillaume  was  quite  right  to  act  as  he  did,  and  besides,  it  was 
his  wife's  desire.  But  it  seems  to  me,  that  if  a  woman  keeps 
lier  eye  upon  the  book-keeping,  the  correspondence,  the 
■details  of  the  business,  the  orders,  and  her  own  household 
affairs,  that  is  all  that  could  be  expected.  After  seven  o'clock, 
-when  the  shop  was  closed,  I,  for  my  part,  should  amuse  my- 
self, go  to  the  theatre,  and  see  a  little  society.  But  you  are 
not  listening  to  me." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  am,  Mr.  Joseph.  What  do  you  think  of  painting  ? 
is  not  that  a  good  calling  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  know  a  house-painter  in  a  large  way  of  business — M. 
Lourdois,  who  has  plenty  of  money." 

Thus  chattering  the  family  reached  the  church  of  St.  Leu. 

There  Madame  Guillaume  resumed  her  authority,  and  for 
the  first  time  made  Augustine  sit  beside  her,  while  Virginia  took 


36  BALZAC. 

the  fourth  seat  beside  Lebas.  During  the  sermon  all  went  well 
between  Augustine  and  Theodore,  who,  standing  behind  a  pillar, 
prayed  to  his  Madonna  with  the  utmost  fervour.  But  at  the 
raising  of  the  host,  Madame  Guillaume  perceived,  rather  late 
in  the  day,  that  her  daughter  Augustine  was  holding  her  prayer- 
book  upside  down.  She  was  about  to  scold  her  vigorously, 
when  lowering  her  veil,  she  took  her  eyes  off  her  book,  and  began 
to  gaze  in  the  direction  affected  by  her  daughter's  eyes. 

Aided  by  her  spectacles  she  caught  sight  of  the  young  artist, 
whose  mundane  elegance  seemed  to  denote  him  some  cavalry 
captain  on  furlough,  rather  than  a  tradesman  of  the  district. 
It  is  difficult  to  imagine  the  state  of  agitation  into  which  Madame 
Guillaume  was  thrown  by  discovering  this  clandestine  love  in 
Augustine's  heart.  She  who  flattered  herself  that  she  had 
brought  her  daughters  up  with  the  utmost  propriety  !  Her 
prudery  and  ignorance,  led  her  to  magnify  the  danger.  She 
believed  her  daughter  corrupted  to  the  very  core. 

"  Hold  your  book  properly,  miss,"  she  exclaimed  in  a  low 
tone,  though  she  was  trembling  with  anger.  She  quickly 
snatched  the  accusing  prayer-book  from  her  daughter's  hand 
and  restored  the  letters  to  their  natural  direction. 

"  Don't  make  the  mistake  of  raising  your  eyes  from  your 
prayers,"  she  added,  "  otherwise  yon  will  have  me  to  deal  with. 
After  mass  your  father  and  I  will  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

These  words  were  like  a  thunderbolt  to  poor  Augustine.  She 
felt  herself  fainting,  but  between  tlte  pain  she  felt  and  the  fear 
of  creating  a  scandal  in  the  church,  she  found  courage  to  con- 
ceal her  anguish.  However,  it  was  easy  to  discern  her  excite- 
ment by  the  trembling  of  her  prayer-book,  and  the  tears  which 
she  shed  on  each  leaf  she  turned. 

From  the  indignant  look  cast  at  him  by  Madame  Guillaume, 
the  artist  saw  the  perils  that  assailed  his  amour,  and  left  the 
church  with  rage  in  his  heart,  and  fired  with  the  determination 
to  dare  everything. 

"  Go  to  your  room,  miss,"  said  Madame  Guillaume  to  her 


THE   CAT  AND  BATTLEDOKr:,  87' 

daughter  on  their  return  to  the  house ;  '*  we  will  send  for  you ; 
and  take  special  care  that  you  don't  leave  it." 

The  conference  between  husband  and  wife  was  so  secret 
that  not  a  jot  of  it  transpired  at  first.  Virginie,  however,  who 
had  encouraged  her  sister  by  a  thousand  gentle  suggestions, 
carried  her  complaisance  so  far  as  to  steal  to  the  door  of  her 
mother's  bedroom,  where  the  discussion  was  going  on,  in  order 
to  pick  up  some  phrases.  The  first  journey  which  she  made 
from  the  third  to  the  second  storey,  she  heard  her  father  ex- 
claim,— 

"  Do  you  want  to  kill  your  child,  then,  madame .?  " 

"  My  poor  darling,"  said  Virginie  to  her  weeping  sister, 
"  papa  is  taking  your  part." 

"  And  what  do  they  mean  to  do  to  Theodore  ?  "  asked  the 
simple  creature. 

The  inquisitive  Virginie  then  went  down  again.  This  time 
she  stayed  longer,  and  learned  that  Lebas  was  in  love  with 
Augustine.  It  was  decreed  that  during  this  memorable  day  a 
house  generally  so  calm  should  be  a  little  hell.  Monsieur 
Guillaume  threw  Lebas  into  despair  by  informing  him  of 
Augustine's  love  for  a  stranger.  Lebas,  who  had  instructed 
his  friend  to  solicit  the  hand  of  Mademoiselle  Virginie,  thus 
saw  all  his  castles  in  the  air  overthrown.  Mademoiselle  Vir- 
ginie, overwhelmed  at  the  news  that  Joseph  Lebas  had  in  a 
manner  refused  her,  was  seized  with  a  headache.  The  dis- 
sension sown  between  the  husband  and  wife  by  the  explana- 
tion which  had  taken  place  between  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Guillaume — the  first  occasion  during  their  married  life  that  had 
found  them  of  different  opinions — showed  itself  'n  a  fashion 
truly  terrible. 

At  length  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Augustme,  pale, 
trembling,  and  red  eyed,  stood  before  her  father  and  mother. 
Fortified  by  the  address  of  her  father,  who  had  promised  to 
listen  to  her  m  silence,  she  gathered  a  certain  courage  as  she 
{)ronounced  in  presence  of  her  parents  the  name  of  hei   dea-t 


38  BALriAC. 

Theodore  Je  Sommervieux,  and  cunningly  emphasized  its  aris- 
tocratic particle,  i^ielding  to  the  novel  charm  of  speaking  of 
her  sentiments,  she  gained  sufficient  confidence  to  declare 
with  an  innocent  firmness  that  s-he  loved  M.  de  Sommervieux, 
that  she  had  written  to  him,  ana  she  added  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  *'to  sacrifice  me  to  another  would  be  to  render  me  mi- 
arable." 

"  But,  Augustine,  you  don't  know  what  an  arlist  is  then.* 
cried  her  mother  in  dismay, 

"  Madame  Guillaume,"  said  ino  old  fathcj,  silencing  his 
good  lady, 

"Augustine,"  he  continued,  •  artists  are,  a5  i  general  rule, 
starvation  birds.  They  are  too  exinivr.gant  ro  Dc  other  than 
ne'er-do-wells.  The  late  M.  Tosepli  Vernet,  the  late  M. 
Lekain,  and  the  late  M.  Noverre,  were  customers  of  mine. 
Oh,  if  you  only  knew  what  trick  that  M.  Noverre,  the  Cheva 
lier  de  St.  Georges,  and  especially  M.  Phillidoi,  played  poor 
dead  daddy  Chevrel.  They  are  a  droll  set  of  fellows  and  no 
mistake  They  have  all  of  them  a  wav  of  talking — and  man- 
ners— oh,  as  for  your  Monsieur  de  Sumer — Somm — " 

*•'  De  Sommervieux,  fallier" 

"Well  De  Sommervieux  chen — he  can  never  have  made 
himself  so  agreeable  to  you  !»s  M  le  Chevalier  de  St. 
Georges  was  to  me  the  day  when  I  obtained  ;  judgment  of 
the  consuls  against  him.  \n.  tney  were  people  of  quality  in 
those  days." 

*-  A-h,  but  father,  Monsieur  Theodore  is  of  noble  blood,  and 
he  told  me  m  one  of  his  letters  that  he  was  rich,  and  that  his 
lather  was  called  the  Chevalier  de  St.  Georges  before  the  revo 
lution." 

At  tiiese  words  M  Guillaume  looked  at  his  formidable  Det- 
ter-half,  who  like  a  woman  baulked  of  het  aiII,  beat  the  floor 
with  her  foot  and  maintained  a  frigid  'ilence.  She  even 
averted  her  indigna^^  gaze  from  .Augustine,  -xnd  seemed  to 
jeave  all  the  responsibilily  of  so  grave  '   matter  to  M,   Guil- 


THE   CAT  AND  BATTLEDORK  o 

laume,  since  her  warning  was  unheeded.  Nevertheless,  in 
spite  of  her  seeming  indifference,  when  she  saw  her  husband 
making  up  his  mind  so  easily  on  a  matter  out  of  the  ordinary 
routine  of  business,  she  exclaimed, — 

"  Well,  I  must  say  that  as  regards  your  daughters,  your  weak- 
ness is— but — " 

The  noise  of  a  carriage  stopping  at  the  door  of  the  house, 
suddenly  interrupted  the  lecture  which  the  old.  shopkeeper  was 
already  dreading.  In  an  instant  Madame  Roguin  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  looking  at  the  three  actors  of  this 
domestic  scene,  said  with  a  patronizing  air, — 

"  I  know  all  that  has  happened,  cousin."  Madame  Roguin 
had  one  fault ;  she  believed  that  the  wife  of  a  Parisian  notary 
could  play  the  part  of  a  pet ite-vtaitt esse, 

"  I  know  all,"  she  repeated,  "  and  I  am  come  to  Noah's  aik 
like  the  dove  with  the  olive  branch.  I  found  that  allegory  in 
the  *  Genie  du  Christianisme,' "  said  she,  turning  towards 
Madame  Guillaume  ;  "  the  comparison  ought  to  please  you, 
cousin.  Do  you  know,"  she  added,  smiling  at  Augustine, 
"  that  this  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux  is  a  charming  man. 
This  morning  he  presented  me  with  my  portrait  painted  in  a 
masterly  fashion.     It  is  worth  at  least  ^^240." 

And  so  saying  she  tapped  M.  Guillaume's  arm.  The  old 
tradesman  pursed  up  his.  mouth  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  himself. 

"  I  know  M.  de  Sommervieux  well,"  resumed  t/ie  dove.  "  For 
•the  past  fortnight  he  has  attended  my  Soirees,  of  which  he  is 
the  life.  He  has  confided  to  me  all  his  love  difficulties  and 
engaged  me  as  his  advocate.  I  learned  this  morning  his  ad- 
miration for  Augustine,  and  he  must  have  her.  Oh,  don't 
shake  your  head,  cousin — but  listen.  They  will  make  him  a 
baron;  he  has  just  been  appointed  a  Chevalier  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor  by  the  Emperor  in  person,  at  the  Exhibition. 
Roguin  is  now  his  notary,  and  knows  the  position  of  his  affairs. 
Well,  M.  de  Sommervieux  derives  from  good  substantial  acres 
nearly  ;^5oo  a  year.     Are  you  aware  that  the  father-in-law  of 


40  BALZAC. 

a  man  like  hiui  may  become  a  somebody  ;  mayor  of  his  arron- 
dissement,  for  example?  Have  you  not  seen  M.  Diipont 
made  a  count  and  senator  of  the  empire  on  account  of  his 
having  presented  himself  in  his  capacity  of  mayor  to  pay  his 
respect  to  the  Emperor  on  his  entry  into  Vienna  ?  Oh,  the 
marriage  will  take  place ;  for  my  part  I  adore  the  young  fellow. 
His  conduct  towards  Augustine  is  such  as  one  meets  with 
only  in  novels.  Come,  my  darling,  you  will  be  happy  and 
everybody  will  envy  you.  Why,  the  Duchess  of  Carogliano, 
who  comes  to  my  soirees,  is  fascinated  with  M.  de  Sommer- 
vieux.  Some  ill-natured  people  say  that  she  only  comes  to  my 
parties  to  meet  ///;//,  as  if  a  duchess  of  yesterday  wore  out  of 
place  in  the  house  of  a  Chevrel  whose  family  c;m  boast  a  hun- 
dred years  of  good  bowgeoisie" 

"Augustine,"  continued  Madame  Roguin  after  a  h'ttle  pause, 
"  I  have  seen  the  portrait.  In  truth  it  is  beautiful.  Do  you 
know  that  the  Emperor  wanted  to  see  it?  He  said  laughingly 
to  the  Vice-constable,  that  if  there  were  many  such  women  as 
that  at  his  court  while  he  had  so  many  kings  there,  he  would 
be  pretty  sure  to  keep  Europe  in  perpetual  peace.  Isn't  that 
flattering  ?  "  The  storms  which  ushered  in  that  day  were  des- 
tined to  resemble  those  of  nature  in  being  followed  by  a  calm. 
Madame  Roguin  brought  into  play  so  many  seductions  in  her 
harangue,  and  touched  at  once  so  many  strings  in  the  dry 
bosoms  of  M.  and  Madame  Guillaume,  that  she  ended  by  find- 
ing one  of  which  she  made  good  use.  i 

At  this  strange  epoch  of  French  history,  bankers  and  men  of 
business  were  more  than  ever  infected  with  the  wild  craze  of 
intermarrying  with  the  aristocracy,  and  the  generals  of  the 
empire  turned  the  inclination  to  good  account.  M.  Guillaume 
opposed  with  unusual  strength  the  ill-starred  mania.  His 
cherished  axioms  were,  that  a  woman,  if  she  desired  happiness, 
ought  to  marry  a  man  in  her  own  class ;  that  one  was  sure  to 
be  punished  sooner  or  later  for  trying  to  rise  above  one's 
sphere;  that  love  stood  the  wear  and  tear  of  family  life  so 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE.  41 

badly  that  both  parties,  to  have  a  chance  of  being  happy,  must 
possess  very  substantial  qualities ;  that  it  was  not  well  for  either 
of  the  married  couple  to  be  more  intelligent  than  the  other, 
because  the  first  requirement  was  a  mutual  understanding ;  if 
the  husband  talked  Greek,  while  the  wife  spoke  Latin,  they 
ran  the  risk  of  dying  of  starvation.  He  had  invented  a  sort 
of  proverb  on  the  subject.  He  compared  marriages  thus  con- 
cluded to  those  old  stuffs  which  were  half  silk  and  half  wool ;  the 
silk  always  destroyed  the  wool  in  the  long-run.  So  great,  how- 
ever, is  the  fund  of  vanity  in  the  human  heart,  that  the  pru- 
dence of  the  pilot  who  steered  the  Chat-qui-pelote  with  such 
address  yielded  to  the  aggressive  volubility  of  Madame  Roguin. 
The  rigid  Madame  Guillaume  was  the  first  to  discover  in  her 
daughter's  predilection  reasons  for  departing  from  the 
principles  which  have  been  mentioned,  and  for  permitting  the 
visits  of  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux,  whom,  she  internally 
resolved  to  subject  to  a  searching  scrutiny. 

The  old  man  of  business  went  in  quest  of  Joseph  Lebas, 
and  told  him  the  position  of  affairs.  At  half-past  six  the 
dining-room  on  which  the  artist  had  conferred  celebrity,  united 
beneath  its  roof  of  glass,  Madame  and  M.  Rougin,  the  young 
painter  and  his  charming  Augustine,  Joseph  Lebas,  who 
endured  his  good  fortune  with  resignation,  and  Virginie,  whose 
headache  had  disappeared.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guillaume 
saw  in  perspective  their  children  married  and  the  destinies  of 
the  Chat-qui-pelote  entrusted  to  skilful  hands.  Their  content- 
ment reached  its  acme  when  Theodore,  at  the  dessert-table, 
presented  them  with  the  marvellous  picture  which  they  had 
been  unable  to  see,  and  which  represented  the  interior  of  the 
old  shop  that  had  given  rise  to  so  much  happiness. 

"It's  very  pretty,"  cried  Guillaume.  "Fancy  offering 
_;^i,20o  for  that." 

"  Ah,  it's  because  my  weepers  are  in  it,"  continued  Madame 
Guillaume." 


42  BALZAC. 

"  And  these  unfolded  stuffs,"  said  Joseph  Lebas ;  "  one  can 
almost  feel  them." 

"  Drapery  always  looks  well  in  a  picture,"  replied  the  painter, 
"  We  modern  artists  would  be  overjoyed  if  we  could  rival  the 
perfection  of  antique  drapery." 

"  Oh,  if  you  go  in  for  drapery,  I  am  with  you,  my  young 
friend.     Since  you  have  a  respect  for  trade,  we  shall  hit  it  off 
together  ;  and  why  should  people  despise  trade  ?     The  world 
sprang  from  trade  since  Adam  sold  Paradise  for  an  apple. 
That  wasn't  a  very  good  stroke  of  business  though,"     And  the 
old  tradesman  broke  out  into  loud  and  unrestrained  laughter,, 
excited  by  the  champagne  which  he  circulated  freely.     The 
band  which  covered  the  eyes  of  the  young  artist  was  so  thick, 
that  he  thought  his  parents,  that  were  to  be,  quite  agreeable. 
He  did  not  disdain  to  move  them  by  some  lively  sallies  ii> 
perfectly  good  taste,  and  so  made  himself  a  general  favorite. 
In  the  evening,  when  the  company  had  left  the  drawing-room 
with  its  substantial  furniture  (to  employ  one  of  Guillaume's 
expressions),  and  while  Madame  Guillaume  bustled  about  from 
table  to  mantelpiece  and  from  chandelier  to  candlestick,  hastily 
blowing  out  the  waxlights,  the  worthy  tradesman,  who  was 
always  keen-sighted  where  business  or  money  was  in  question, 
drew  his  daughter  Augustine  to  his  side,  and  taking  her  upon 
his  knees,  thus  addressed  her, — 
►     *'  My  dear  child,  you  shall  marry  Sommervieux,  since  such 
is  your  desire.     You  have  a  right  to  risk  your  capital  of  happi- 
ness.     But  I  am  not  to  be  caught  by  your  ^^1,200  gained  by 
spoiling  good  canvas;  money  earned  so  quickly  goes  as  quickly. 
Didn't  I  hear  the  young  madcap  say  this  very  evening  that  if 
money  was  round,  it  was  made  so,  that  it  might  roll.    If  money 
is  round  for  spendthrifts,  it  is  flat  for  the  econonomical  people 
who  amass  it.     Now,  child,   this  handsome   spark   of  yours 
talks  about  letting  you  have  carriages  and  jewels.     He  has 
money ;  if  he  chooses  to  spend  it  on  you,  bene  sit.     I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  that ;  but  as  to  what  I  give  you,  I  don't 


THE  CAT  AND   BATTLEDORE.  43 

want  the  crowns  it  has  cost  me  so  much  trouble  to  get  together, 
to  be  spent  on  carriages  and  trinkets.  The  man  who  spends 
too  much  is  never  rich.  With  the  ;^6,ooo  that  make  your 
portion,  you  can't  as  yet  buy  the  whole  of  Paris.  You  may 
some  day  receive  a  few  thousands  more ;  good.  I  will  make 
you  wait  for  them  as  long  as  possible.  Well,  I  took  your  in- 
tended into  a  quiet  corner,  and  the  man  who  managed  the 
Lecocq  bankruptcy  so  skilfully  did  not  experience  much  diffi- 
culty in  getting  an  artist  to  consent  to  a  marriage  settlement 
protecting  the  wife's  fortune.  I  will  keep  an  eye  upon  the  deed 
of  settlement,  to  see  that  the  money  he  proposes  to  settle  on. 
you  is  all  right ;  come,  my  child,  I  hope  soon  to  be  a  grand- 
father. I  am  already  anxious  to  busy  myself  about  my  grand- 
children ;  swear  to  me,  then,  here  on  the  spot,  never  to  sigD 
any  document  relating  to  money  without  my  advice,  and  that 
in  case  I  go  to  join  old  father  Chevrel  too  soon,  you  will  con- 
sult young  Lebas,  your  brother  in-law;  now  promise  me." 

"  Yes,  father,  I  swear  it." 

At  these  words  uttered  in  a  gentle  voice  the  old  man  kissecJ 
his  daughter  first  on  one  cheek  and  then  on  the  other.  That 
night  all  the  lovers  slept  almost  as  peacefully  as  M.  and 
Madame  Guillaume. 

Some  months  after  this  riiemorable  Sunday,  the  high  altar  at 
St  Leu  witnessed  two  very  different  marriages.  Augustine  and 
Theodore  presented  themselves  in  all  the  glittering  parade  of 
happiness  ;  their  eyes  overflowed  with  love ;  their  toilettes  were 
most  elegant,  while  a  dashing  equipage  av/aited  them.  Virginie, 
accompanied  by  her  family,  came  in  a  decent  hackney  carriage; 
and  leaning  on  her  father's  arm  and  more  simply  attired,  fol- 
lowed her  younger  sister  like  a  shadow,  necessary  to  complete 
the  harmony  of  the  picture.  M.  Guillaume  had  taken  the 
utmost  possible  trouble  to  induce  the  clergy  to  marry  Virginie 
before  Augustine ;  but  he  had  to  undergo  the  mortification  of 
seeing  both  the  superior  and  inferior  clergy  address  themselves 
in  the  first  instance  to  the  more  elegant  of  the  two  brides.     He 


44j  BALZAC. 

overheard  some  of  the  neighbors  express  marked  approval  of 
the  good  sense  of  Mademoiselle  Virginie,  wno  was  making,  as 
they  said,  the  more  solid  marriage  and  remaining  faithful  to 
the  quarter,  while  they  indulged  m  certain  disparaging  com- 
ments, born  of  envy,  upon  Augustine,  who  was  marrying  an 
-artist  and  a  nobleman.  They  added  with  a  sort  of  horror,  that 
if  the  Guillaumes  gave  way  to  ambition,  the  drapery  trade  was 
<ioomed.  An  old  fan  merchant,  having  remarked  that  that 
spendthrift  would  very  soon  reduce  Augustine  to  a  bed  of 
■straw,  father  Guillaume  secretly  congratulated  himself  on  the 
prudence  which  he  had  displayed  in  the  provisions  of  the 
■marriage  settlement. 

In  the  evening  after  a  sumptuous  ball,  followed  by  one  of 
those  abundant  suppers  which  in  the  present  generation  are 
almost  forgotten,  M.  and  Madame  Guillaume  stayed  at  their 
house  in  the  Rue  Colombier  in  which  the  marriage  festivities 
had  been  held  ;  M.  and  Madame  Lebas  returned  in  their  hired 
carriage  to  the  old  house  in  the  Rue  St.  Denis,  there  to  direct 
the  course  of  the  good  ship  Chat-qui-pelote ;  while  the  artist, 
intoxicated  with  happiness,  took  his  beloved  Augustine  in  his 
.arms,  and  when  their  carriage  reached  the  Rue  des  Trois 
Frbres,  raised  her  quickly  and  carried  her  to  a  room  which  all 
the  arts  had  combined  to  embellish.  The  impetuous  passion 
with  which  Theodore  was  inspired  continued  for  nearly  one 
•whole  rapid  year,  during  which  not  the  slightest  cloud  over- 
shadowed the  azure  heaven  under  which  they  dwelt.  With  the 
two  lovers  life  had  no  burdens.  Theodore  surrounded  each 
passing  day  with  incredible  flourishes  of  happiness ;  he  took 
pleasure  in  varying  the  transports  of  passion  by  that  soft  langour 
•of  repose  in  which  two  souls  are  launched  so  far  in  ecstasy  that 
they  seem  to  forget  their  bodily  ties.  The  happy  Augustine, 
incapable  of  reflection,  gave  herself  up  to  the  rhythmical  march 
of  her  joy ;  she  did  not  feel  that  she  did  as  much  as  was  re- 
quired of  her  by  yielding  entirely  to  the  lawful  and  sanctified 
love  of  marriage.     In  her  artlessness  and  simplicity,  moreover, 


THE   CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE.  45 

she  was  entirely  ignorant  of  the  coquetry  of  withholding  her 
favours  and  of  tlie  adroit  caprices,  whereby  the  young  ladies  of 
high  life  secure  an  empire  over  their  husbands.  She  loved  toa 
well,  to  indulge  in  calculations  of  the  future,  nor  did  it  ever 
enter  her  head  that  so  delightful  an  existence  could  ever  cease. 
Happy  then  in  being  the  source  of  all  her  husband's  pleasures,, 
she  believed  that  his  inextinguishable  love  would  ever  be  the 
brightest  of  all  her  jewels,  just  as  her  devotion  and  obedience 
would  form  an  eternal  attraction  ;  and  moreover,  the  happiness 
that  waits  on  love  had  rendered  her  so  radiant,  that  her  beauty- 
inspired  her  with  pride,  and  assured  her  of  her  continued  power 
to  reign  over  a  man  so  susceptible  as  M.  de  Sommervieux^ 
Thus  her  position  as  a  wife  taught  her  nothing  but  the  mere 
lessons  of  love,  In  the  midst  of  her  happiness  she  remained  the 
ignorant  little  girl  who  led  an  obscure  existence  in  the 
Rue  St.  Denis,  and  she  did  not  think  of  acquiring  the  manners 
the  education,  and  the  tone,  of  the  world  in  which  she  was 
called  upon  to  live.  Her  language  being  the  language  of  love,, 
she  displayed  in  the  use  of  it  a  certain  suppleness  of  intellect 
and  delicacy  of  expression,  but  then  she  was  employing  the 
language  which  all  women  have  in  common,  when  plunged  in 
the  passion  which  seems  to  be  their  element.  If  it  came  to- 
pass  that  Augustine  gave  vent  to  any  ideas  that  jarred  with 
those  of  Theodore,  the  young  artist  laughed  at  them,  as  one 
laughs  at  the  first  mistakes  made  by  a  foreigner,  vvhich  never- 
theless grow  wearisome  if  he  fails  to  correct  them.  In  spite  of 
such  a  fund  of  love,  Sommervieux  at  the  end  of  this  all  brief 
and  happy  twelvemonth,  felt  the  necessity  of  recurring  to  his 
old  labors  and  modes  of  life.  In  addittion  to  this  his  wife  was 
enceinte.  Thus  he  saw  his  friends  once  more.  During  the 
protracted  sufferings  of  the  year  during  which  a  young  wife 
suckles  her  first  child,  he  worked,  it  is  true,  with  ardor 
but  he  from  time  to  time  returned  to  seek  some  dis- 
traction in  society.  The  house  which  he  most  readily  visited^ 
was  that  of  the  Duchess  de  Carigliano,  who  had  at   last  sue- 


46  BALZAC. 

ceeded  in  securing  the  celebrated  artist  as  one  of  her  habitufes. 
When  Augustine  had  regained  her  strength,  and  her  son 
no  longer  needed  the  unremitting  care  which  precludes  a 
mother  from  entering  into  the  gaieties  of  social  life,  Theodore 
had  begun  to  desire  that  patisfaction  which  our  self-love  derives 
from  appearing  in  society  accompanied  by  a  beautiful  woman 
■who  is  an  object  at  once  of  envy  and  admiration.  Augustine 
reaped  a  fresh  harvest  of  pleasure  in  parading  reception-room 
after  reception-room,  surrounded  by  the  delate  conferred  by 
her  husband's  fame,  and  in  finding  herself  envied  by  other 
■women.  But  this  was  the  last  ray  shed  by  her  married  bliss. 
She  began  by  wounding  her  husband's  vanity,  when,  in  spite  of 
her  fruitless  efforts,  she  exposed  her  ignorance,  the  impropriety 
of  her  language,  and  the  narrowness  of  her  ideas.  At  the  expira- 
tion of  two  years  and  a  half  the  taming  influence  of  the  first 
transports  of  passion  passed  away ;  the  character  of  De 
Sommervieux  regained,  as  the  satiety  of  lengthened  possession 
set  in,  its  original  bent;  and  he  returned  to  that  course  of  life 
from  which  he  had  for  a  brief  period  deviated.  Poetry, 
painting,  the  exquisite  delights  of  the  imagination,  possess  over 
elevated  minds  claims  which  no  prescription  can  defeat. 
These  claims  of  a  powerful  mind  had  not  in  Theodore's  case 
been  defeated  during  these  two  years.  They  had  simply  found 
fresh  pasturage.  When  the  fields  of  love  were  thoroughly 
■etplored,  when,  like  some  child,  the  artist  had  gathered  roses 
iind  cornflowers  with  such  avidity  that  his  hands  could  hold  no 
more,  the  scene  changed.  If  he  showed  his  wife  the  sketches 
of  his  most  beautiful  compositions,  he  would  hear  her  exclaim 
just  as  her  father  Guillaume  would  have  done,  "That's  very 
pretty." 

This  lukewarm  admiration  was  not  the  result  of  interna^ 
convictions,  but  of  faith  on  word  of  love.  Augustine  preferred 
one  look  to  the  most  beautiful  picture.  The  only  sublime  she 
recognized  was  that  of  the  heart.  In  short,  Theodore  could 
aiot  resist  the  proof  of  this  cruel  fact ;  his  wi.^e  was  not  alive 


THE   CAT  AND  BATTLEDOKE,  47 

to  poetry,  she  did  not  live  in  his  world ;  she  did  not  share  his 
whims,  his  sudden  inspirations,  his  joys  and  sorrows.  Her 
food  was  on  the  solid  earth  of  prosaic  reality,  while  liis  head 
was  in  the  skies.  Ordinary  minds  cannot  appreciate  the  con- 
stantly recurring  sufferings  of  him,  who,  being  united  to  another 
by  the  closest  of  all  ties,  is  perpetually  forced  to  trample 
down  the  most  treasured  flights  of  his  fancy,  and  to  annihilate 
the  images  which  a  magic  power  constrains  him  to  create.  In 
his  case  the  torture  is  the  more  cruel  in  that  the  fundamental 
law  of  the  feeling  which  he  entertains  towards  his  companion 
compels  them  to  hide  nothing  from  each  other,  and  to  share 
both  the  out-pour  of  the  brain  and  of  the  heart.  Not  with 
impunity  can  we  do  violence  to  the  dictates  of  nature;  she  is 
inexorable  as  fate,  which  indeed  is  a  species  of  social  nature. 

Sommervieux  sought  refuge  in  the  silence  and  the  calm  of 
his  studio,  while  he  nourished  the  hope,  that  the  habit  of  living 
among  artists  might  form  his  wife  and  develope  in  her  those 
dormant  germs  of  high  intelligence  which  certain  gifted  spirits 
liold  to  be  innate  in  every  human  being.  But  Augustine  was 
too  sincerely  religious  not  to  be  alarmed  at  the  tone  assumed 
by  artists.  At  the  first  dinner  given  by  Theodore  she  heard  a 
young  painter  say,  with  that  childish  levity  which  she  could 
not  discern,  and  which  robs  a  joke  of  all  its  impiety,  "  Yes, 
madame,  but  your  paradise  is  not  more  beautiful  than  the 
Transfiguration  of  Raphael,  and  yet  I  grew  tired  o(  looking  at 
that ;  "  and  thus  it  happened  that  Augustine  encountered  this 
witty  society  with  a  feeling  of  distrust  which  no  one  could  fail 
to  perceive.  She  prevented  people  from  feeling  themselves  at 
their  ease.  Now  artists  suffering  under  such  constraint  are 
unmerciful ;  they  resort  either  to  flight  or  to  ridicule.  Madame 
Guillaume,  among  other  absurdities  in  which  she  indulged, 
carried  to  a  ridiculous  extent  the  dignity  which  seemed  to  her 
the  fitting  appanage  of  a  wife,  and  Augustine,  often  as  she  had 
laughed  at  it,  could  not  entirely  refrain  from  slightly  imitat- 
ing her  mother's  prudery.     This  exaggerated  modesty,  which 


48  BALZAC. 

virtuous  women  do  not  always  escape,  gave  nse  to  certain  epi- 
grams, in  the  shape  of  sketches,  the  gentle  satire  of  which  was 
too  much  in  accordance  with  the  dictates  of  good  taste  to  give 
serious  annoyance  to  De  Sommervieux.  Had  they  been  far 
more  severe,  they  would  have  been  merely  reprisals  inflicted  on 
him  by  his  friends.  But  nothing  could  be  more  trivial  to  a 
mind  so  susceptible  to  foreign  impressions  as  Theodore's,  and 
thus  a  certain  coolness  gradually  stole  over  him  which  could 
not  fail  to  grow.  Connubial  felicity  is,  as  it  were,  situated  on 
the  level  but  narrow  summit  of  a  hill,  close  to  which  lies  a 
steep  and  slippery  decline,  and  the  painter's  passion  was  now 
descending  it.  He  deemed  his  wife  incapable  of  appreciating 
the  moral  considerations^  which,  in  his  own  eyes,  justified  the 
peculiarity  of  his  conduct  towards  her,  and  held  himself  clear 
of  all  blame  in  concealing  from  her,  ideas  which  she  could  not 
understand,  and  escapades  which  he  held  to  be  beyond  the 
cognizance  of  the  tribunal  of  a  bourgeois  conscience.  Augus- 
tine cloistered  herself  in  calm  and  silent  sorrow.  These  unex- 
pressed feelings  established  between  the  husband  and  the  wife 
a  veil  which  was  doomed  to  grow  thicker  day  by  day.  Augus- 
tine's husband  was  not  wanting  in  politeness  towards  her;  but 
she  could  not  observe  without  a  shudder  that  he  reserved  for 
the  world  those  treasures  of  wit  and  grace  which  he  formerly 
laid  at  her  feet.  She  very  soon  began  to  give  the  most  ominous 
interpretation  t«  those  smart  sayings  as  to  the  inconstancy  of 
men,  in  which  society  indulges.  She  did  not  give  vent  to  any 
reproaches,  but  the  attitude  which  she  assumed  amounted  to  a 
reproach. 

Three  years  after  marriage  this  pretty  young  woman,  who' 
drove  by  so  brilliant  in  her  brilliant  carriage,  who  was  living  in 
an  environment  of  glory  and  of  wealth  which  made  her  an 
object  of  envy  to  many  thoughtless  and  undiscriminating  per- 
sons, was  a  prey  to  violent  grief.  Her  color  faded;  she  reflected, 
she  compared;  then  she  read  by  the  light  of  misfortune  the  first 
texts  of  experience.     She  resolved  bravely  to  confine  herself 


THE  CAT  AND   BATTLED(»IE.  49 

within  the  circle  of  her  duties,  hoping  that  her  generous  con- 
duct would  sooner  or  later  win  back  her  husband's  love.  But 
it  was  not  so.  When  Sommervieux  exhausted  with  labor  left 
his  studio,  Augustine  did  not  manage  to  hide  her  work  so 
speedily,  but  that  the  painter  could  see  that  his  wife  was  mend- 
ing all  the  house-linen  and  her  own,  with  all  the  minute  atten- 
tion of  a  good  house-wife.  She  would  produce  generously  and 
without  a  murmur  the  money  necessary  to  her  husband's  pro- 
fusion ;  but  actuated  by  a  desire  to  spare  the  fortune  of  her 
dear  Theodore,  she  exhibited  a  spirit  of  economy  as  regarded 
herself  and  certain  details  of  the  domestic  administration. 
Such  conduct  is  incompatible  with  the  free  and  easy  method 
of  artists,  who,  when  their  career  terminates  in  ruin,  have  so 
thoroughly  enjoyed  existence  that  they  never  inquire  into  the 
cause  of  that  ruin.  It  is  useless  to  depict  every  shade  of 
degradation  of  colour  as  it  invaded  and  finally  involved  in  pro- 
found obscurity  the  brilliant  tints  of  the  honeymoon.  One 
evening  the  melancholy  Augustine  who,  for  some  time  past, 
had  heard  her  husband  speaking  in  enthusiastic  language  of 
the  Duchess  of  Carigliano,  received  from  a  female  friend  cer- 
tain mischievously  charitable  hints  as  to  the  nature  of  De 
Sommervieux's  attachment  to  that  renowned  coquette  of  the 
imperial  court.  Augustine,  who  was  only  twenty-one  and  in 
the  full  bloom  of  youth  and  beauty,  found  herself  betrayed  for 
the  sake  of  a  woman  of  thirty-six.  Feeling  herself  miserable  in 
the  midst  the  world  and  its  festivities,  which  were  deserts  to 
her,  the  poor  girl  lost  all  consciousness  of  the  admiration,  and 
the  envy  which  she  excited.  Her  face  assumed  a  new  expres- 
sion. Melancholy  shed  upon  her  features  the  resignation  and 
the  pallor  of  neglected  love.  The  most  seductive  men  did  not 
long  delay  to  pay  their  court  to  her ;  but  ehe  remained  solitary 
and  virtuous.  Certain  contemptuous  phrases  uttered  by  her 
husband  filled  her  with  incredible  despair.  A  sinister  light 
revealed  to  her  the  defective  contact  which,  resulting  from  the 
narrowness  of  her  education,  prevented  the  perfect  union  of  her 

D 


50  ^  BAliZAC. 

mind  with  that  of  Theodore.  She  loved  so  well,  that  she 
acquitted  him  and  condemned  herself.  She  wept  tears  of 
blood ;  she  discovered  all  too  late  that  there  are  unequal  mar. 
riages  in  mind  as  well  as  in  rank  and  manners.  When  she 
reflected  on  the  vernal  ecstacies  of  her  union,  she  measured 
the  extent  of  her  vanished  happiness  and  came  to  the  convic- 
tion that  so  rich  a  harvest  of  love  was  equivalent  to  a  whole 
life,  and  could  be  purchased  only  by  compensating  misery. 
Nevertheless  she  loved  too  sincerely  to  lose  all  hope ;  and  so, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  she  began  to  educate  herself  and  to 
raise  her  imagination  to  a  level  worthy  of  that  which  she 
admired  so  much.  "  If  I  am  not  a  poet,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  I  will  at  least  understand  poetry."  And  then  putting  forth 
that  force  of  will,  that  energy  which  all  women  possess  when 
they  love,  Madame  de  Sommervieux  endeavored  to  change  her 
disposition,  manners,  and  habits.  But  the  only  result  of  her  vor- 
acious reading  and  courageous  application  was  that  she  became 
less  ignorant :  nimble  wit  and  graceful  conversation  are  gifts  of 
nature,  or  else  the  fruit  of  training  begun  in  the  cradle.  She 
could  appreciate  music  and  enjoy  it,  but  she  could  not  sing 
with  taste.  She  could  understand  literature  and  the  beauties 
of  poetry,  but  it  was  too  late  to  fix  them  in  her  rebel  memory. 
She  listened  with  pleasure  to  the  chit-chat  of  the  world,  but 
could  not  contribute  to  its  brilliance.  Her  religious  views  and 
the  prejudices  of  her  childhood  clung  to  her  and  prevented  the 
complete  emancipation  of  her  intellect.  In  short,  a  foregone 
conclusion  to  her  disadvantage  had  stealthily  established  itself 
in  Theodore's  mind,  and  she  could  not  dislodge  it.  The 
artist  laughed  at  those  who  spoke  the  praises  of  his  wife  to  him, 
and  his  mockery  was  not  without  foundation ;  he  was  so  much 
an  object  of  reverence  to  the  young  and  interesting  creature, 
that  she  trembled  when  she  was  in  his  presence  and  when  she 
was  alone  with  him.  Embarrassed  by  her  excessive  anxiety  to 
give  satisfaction,  she  felt  her  wit  and  learning  swallowed  up  in 
one  overwhelming  feeling.     The  very  fidelity  of  Augustine  dis- 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORlfc  51 

pleased  the  faithless  husband,  who  seemed  to  invite  her  to  go 
astray  by  terming  her  chastity  constitutional  frigidity.  It  was 
in  vain  that  Augustine  put  force  upon  herself  to  abdicate  her 
reason,  to  bow  to  the  whims  and  caprices  of  her  husband,  and 
sacrifice  herself  to  the  egotism  of  his  vanity ;  she  did  not  gather 
the  fruit  of  her  sacrifices.  It  might  be  that  they  had  both 
allowed  the  moment  iavorable  to  a  complete  mutual  under- 
standing to  glide  away.  On  one  particular  day  the  over-sensi- 
tive heart  of  the  young  wife  received  one  of  those  blows  which 
so  completely  loosen  the  bonds  of  feeling  that  they  seem  to  be 
broken.  She  shut  herself  up  ;  but  soon  the  fatal  idea  suggested 
itself,  to  go  and  seek  consolation  and  counsel  in  the  bosom  of 
her  family. 

One  morning,  then,  she  directed  her  steps  to  the  grotesque 
facade  of  the  homely  and  silent  house  in  which  the  days  of  her 
childhood  had  been  spent.  She  sighed  as  she  caught  sight 
once  more  of  the  window,  from  which  she  had  one  day  kissed 
her  hand  to  him  who  was  now  surrounding  her  existence  with 
glory  and  with  sorrow.  All  was  unchanged  in  the  cave  in 
which  nevertheless  the  cloth  trade  was  renewing  its  youth. 
Augustine's  sister  occupied  her  mother's  seat  at  the  old  counter. 
The  youthful  mourner  found  her  brother-in-law  with  his  pen 
stuck  behind  his  ear  and  so  busy  that  he  hardly  listened  to  her. 
He  was  surrounded  by  the  formidable  symptoms  of  a  general 
stock-taking,  and  begging  to  be  excused,  he  left  her  to  herself 
Her  sister  received  her  with  a  coolness  which  betrayed  a  cer- 
tain grudge ;  for  in  fact  Augustine  had  never  been  to  see  her 
sister  except  when,  elegantly  dressed,  she  would  leave  her  well 
appointed  carriage  to  pay  her  a  passing  visit ;  so  the  wife  of  the 
prudent  Lebas  fancied  that  money  was  the  real  cause  of  this 
early  call,  and  she  accordingly  endeavored  to  maintain  a  tone 
of  reserve  which  more  than  once  made  Augustine  smile.  The 
wife  of  the  artist  perceived  that,  barring  the  weepers  on  the 
cap,  her  rhother  had  found  in  Virginie  a  successor  who  pre- 
served the  old-standing  reputation    of  the   Chat-qui-pelote. 


52  .-  BALZAC. 

During  lunch  she  noticed  certain  alterations  in  the  household 
regulations  which  did  honor  to  the  good  sense  of  Joseph 
Lebas ;  the  clerks  did  not  leave  the  table  at  dessert ;  they 
enjoyed  freedom  of  speech ;  while  the  abundant  fare  spoke  of 
affluence  without  luxury.  The  elegant  young  woman  noticed 
the  counterfoils  of  a  box  at  the  Theatre  Francais,  where  she 
remembered  to  have  seen  her  sister  from  time  to  time.  Madame 
Lebas  wore  upon  her  shoulders  a  Cashmere  shawl  whose  mag- 
nificence bore  witness  to  the  generous  attention  bestowed  on 
her  by  her  husband.  In  short  the  worthy  couple  advanced 
with  the  age.  A  tender  melancholy  took  possession  of  Augus- 
' tine's  mind  as  she  observed  during  the  two-thirds  of  the  day 
which  she  spent  at  her  sister's,  the  even  happiness  of  the  well 
assorted  pair.  It  had  no  transports  but  then  it  had  no  storms. 
They  had  accepted  life  as  a  commercial  enterprise,  the  leading 
principle  of  which  was  the  due  conduct  of  their  business. 
Virginie  had  not  found  in  her  husband  an  ardent  affection ;  so 
she  set  to  work  to  create  one.  Joseph  Lebas  was  led  by 
imperceptible  degrees,  first  to  esteem  and  then  to  love  his  wife, 
and  the  time  which  elapsed  ere  the  flower  of  happiness  bloomed 
was  a  security  for  its  permanence.  Accordingly  when  the 
querulous  Augustine  explained  her  painful  predicament,  she 
had  to  endure  a  deluge  of  commonplaces  suggested  to  her 
sister  by  the  stock  morality  of  the  Rue  St.  Denis. 

"  The  evil  is  done,  wife,"  said  Joseph  Lebas,  "  our  duty  is  to 
give  our  sister  sound  advice." 

Then  the  skilful  tradesman  proceeded  to  a  weighty  analysis 
of  the  expedients  which  law  and  the  usages  of  society  afforded 
Augustine  as  means  of  extricating  herself  from  the  existing 
crisis.  He  ticked  off,  so  to  speak,  the  various  considerations, 
and  arranged  them  according  to  their  weight,  in  categories ; 
just  as  if  he  were  dealing  with  goods  of  different  qualities. 
Then  he  put  them  in  the  balance,  weighed  them,  and  wound 
up  by  demonstrating  that  it  was  incumbent  on  his  sister  to 
take  decisive  action.     Now  this  did  not  accord  with  the  affec- 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE.  63 

tion  which  Augustine  still  entertained  for  her  husband,  and  so 
when  she  heard  Lebas  talking  of  legal  measures,  that  feeling 
awoke  in  all  its  strength. 

She  thanked  her  two  friends  and  returned  home,  still  more 
doubtful  how  to  act  than  before  she  consulted  them.  Then 
she  ventured  to  wend  her  way  to  the  old-fashioned  house  m  the 
Rue  du  Colombier,  with  a  view  to  confiding  her  misfortunes  to 
her  father  and  mother ;  for  she  now  resembled  those  desperate 
invalids  who  will  try  any  prescription,  and  surrender  themselves 
even  to  the  nostrums  of  old  women.  The  aged  couple  received 
their  daughter  with  an  effusive  kindness  which  deeply  affected 
her.  Her  visit  formed  a  break  in  the  monotony  of  their  exis- 
tence which  was  invaluable  to  them.  For  four  years  they  had 
lived  like  mariners  without  a  destination  and  without  a  compass. 
Seated  in  the  chimney-comer  they  would  chat  to  one  another 
about  the  disasters  of  the  maxtmufn,  their  bygone  purchases  of 
cloth,  their  skilful  avoidance  of  bankruptcies,  and  especially 
that  celebrated  Lecocq  failure,  which  was  father  Guillaume's 
battle  of  Marengo.  Then,  having  exhausted  their  old  law-suits, 
they  would  recapitulate  the  totals  of  their  most  productive 
stock-takings,  and  narrate  once  more  the  old  stories  of  the 
Quartier  St.  Denis.  When  two  o'clock  came  daddy  Guillaume 
would  set  out,  just  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  progress  of  affairs 
at  the  Chat-qui-pelote.  As  he  made  his  way  back  he  would 
stop  at  all  the  shops  which  had  formerly  been  his  rivals  ;  while 
the  young  proprietors  would  endeavour  to  involve  the  old 
tradesman  in  some  risky  discount  transaction  which,  according 
to  his  inveterate  habit  he  never  positively  declined.  Two  stout 
Normandy  horses  were  dying  of  mesenteritis  in  the  stable,  for 
Madame  Guillaume  never  used  them,  except  when,  as  each 
Sunday  came  round,  they  dragged  her  to  high  mass  at  the 
parish  church.  Three  times  a  week  the  worthy  couple  kept 
open  house.  Thanks  to  the  influence  of  his  son-in-law  Som- 
mervieux,  father  Guillaume  had  been  appointed  a  member  of 
the  consulting  committee  for  the  clothing  of  the  troops ;  and 


54  BALZAC. 

since  the  elevation  of  her  husband  to  that  important  govern- 
ment appointment,  Madame  Guillaume  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  give  entertainments,  and  her  rooms  were  encumbered  with 
so  many  ornaments  in  gold  and  silver,  and  tasteless  but  expen- 
sive furniture,  that  the  least  sumptuous  apartment  looked  like 
a  chapel.  Economy  and  prodigality  seemed  to  be  at  feud  with 
one  another  in  every  detail  of  the  establishment.  One  would 
have  said  that  M.  Guillaume  had  been  thinking  of  making  a 
profitable  investment  even  in  the  purchase  of  a  candlestick. 

In  the  midst  of  this  bazaar,  whose  fertility  proved  the  leisure 
of  the  worthy  pair,  De  Sommervieux's  famous  picture  held  the 
place  of  honour  and  afforded  great  consolation  to  M.  and 
Madame  Guillaume,  who  twenty  times  in  the  course  of  the  day 
would  turn  their  spectacled  gaze  to  that  delineation  of  the  old 
existence  which  had  been  so  replete  with  activity  and  amuse- 
ment for  them.  The  aspect  of  the  house  and  of  the  apartments, 
redolent  as  they  were  of  age  and  mediocrity,  and  the  spectacle 
presented  by  the  two  inmates  who  seemed,  as  it  were,  cast 
upon  a  rock,  far  from  the  world  and  its  vitilizing  thoughts, 
struck  Augustine  with  surprise.  She  now  saw  the  second  part 
of  the  tableux,  the  first  part  of  which  she  had  witnessed  in  the 
dwelling  of  Joseph  Lebas.  Here  was  an  existence  busy  yet 
stationary — a  life  guided,  like  that  of  the  beaver,  by  a  mechani- 
cal instinct.  Under  the  influence  of  this  reflection  she  took  a 
sort  of  pride  in  her  sorrows  as  she  thought  that  they  had  their 
source  in  eighteen  months  of  happiness  which  were  worth  a 
thousand  such  lives  as  that  which  she  saw  before  her  in  all  its 
horrible  emptiness.  However,  Augustme  concealed  the  un- 
charitable thought  and  displayed  for  the  benefit  of  her  aged 
parents,  the  novel  charms  of  her  intellect  and  the  seductive 
tenderness  which  love  had  taught  her.  Thus  she  disposed 
them  to  lend  a  favourable  ear  to  her  matrimonial  troubles.  Old 
people  have  a  weakness  for  confidential  communications  of  the 
kind.  Madame  Guillaume  wanted  to  learn  the  most  trivial 
details  of  the  strange  existence  which  was  almost  fabulous  to 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORK.  55 

her.  The  travels  of  Baron  de  la  Houtau,  which  she  was  always 
taking  up  without  ever  reading  it  through,  contained  nothing 
more  unheard  of,  about  the  savages  of  Canada. 

"  What,  child,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  your  husband 
shuts  himself  in  with  naked  women  ?  and  are  you  simple 
enough  to  believe  that  he  draws  them  ?" 

And  with  this  ejaculation  the  grandmother  laid  her  specta- 
cles on  a  little  work-table,  shook  her  petticoats,  and  placed 
her  folded  hands  on  her  knees,  raised  above  their  natural  level 
by  a  foot-warmer,  her  favorite  foot-stool. 

"  But,  mother,  all  artists  are  obliged  to  have  models." 

"  He  took  good  care  to  say  nothing  to  us  about  that,  -when 
he  proposed.  If  I  had  known  it,  I  would  not  have  given  a 
girl  of  mine  to  a  man  who  pursues  such  a  calling.  Religion 
prohibits  such  dreadful  practices.  It's  immoral.  What  time 
do  you  say  he  comes  home  ?" 

"  Oh,  one  or  two  o'clock." 

The  old  folks  looked  at  one  another  in  deep  amazement. 

"Then  he  gambles,"  said  M,  Guillaume.  "In  my  day 
only  gamblers  stayed  out  so  late. 

Augustine  made  a  slight  grimace  in  repulse  of  this  accusa- 
tion. 

"  He  must  cause  you  to  pass  fearful  nights  sitting  up  for 
him,"  resumed  Madame  Guillaume.  "  But  no,  you  go  to 
bed,  don't  you  ?  And  when  he  has  lost  money  the  monster 
wakes  you  up." 

"No,  mother,  on  the  contrary,  he  is  often  in  excellent 
spirits.  Very  often  when  it  is  fine  he  asks  me  to  get  up  and 
go  with  him  to  the  parks. 

"  To  the  parks  at  that  time  in  the  morning  ?  You  must  be 
very  much  cramped  for  space  if  he  hasn't  room  enough  in  his 
bed-room  and  drawing-rooms,  and  must  needs  scamper  about, 
— but  it  must  be  to  make  you  catch  cold  that  the  villain  asks 
you  to  join  in  such  excursions ;  he  wants  to  be  rid  of  you. 


56  BALZAC. 

depend  upon  it.     Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  married  man  in  a 
snug  business  galloping  about  like  a  man-wolf?" 

"  But,  mother,  you  don't  understand  that  in  order  to 
develope  his  talents  he  requires  excitement.  He  is  very  fond 
of  scenes  which — " 

\  "Scenes — I'd  show  him  some  scenes,  trust  me,"  cried 
iMadame  Guiliaume,  interrupting  her  daughter.  "  How  can 
you  at  all  bear  with  a  man  like  that?  In  the  first  place,  I 
don't  like  his  drinking  nothing  but  water.  It  isn't  wholesome. 
Then  why  does  he  dislike  to  see  women  eating?  What  a 
queer  notion,  why  he  must  be  mad.  What  you  have  told  us 
about  him  is  impossible.  A  man  can'i  leave  his  house  without 
saying  a  word  to  anybody,  and  stay  away  ten  days.  He  tells 
you  he  has  been  at  Dieppe  to  paint  the  sea.  Do  people  ever 
paint  the  sea?     Why  he  crams  you  with  children's  stories." 

Augustine  opened  her  mouth  to  defend  her  husband,  but 
Madame  Guiliaume  motioned  her  to  hold  her  tongue  with  a 
gesture  to  which  early  habit  lent  authority,  and  then  proceeded 
in  a  dry  tone  of  voice, — 

"  Stop,  don't  talk  to  me  about  the  man.  He  never  set  his 
foot  inside  a  church  except  to  look  at  you  and  to  marry  you. 
Irreligious  people  are  capable  of  anything.  Do  you  suppose 
that  Guiliaume  ever  took  it  into  his  head  to  hide  anything  from 
me,  to  go  three  days  together  without  even  opening  his  lips, 
and  then  begin  to  chatter  like  a  one-eyed  magpie  ?" 

"  My  dear  mother,  you  are  too  hard  upon  superior  people. 
If  their  ideas  resembled  those  of  other  people,  we  should 
have  no  talented  people  at  all." 

"  Well,  then,  let  men  of  talent  keep  to  themselves,  and  live 
single.  What  ?  things  are  come  to  a  pretty  pass  if  a  man  of 
talent  is  to  make  his  wife  miserable  because  he  is  a  man  of 
talent.  Talent !  talent  1  I  don't  see  much  talent  in  perpetu. 
ally  talking  black  and  white,  interrupting  people,  blowing  one's 
own  trumpet,  never  letting  one  know  what  to  be  at,  compell- 
ing a  woman  to  abstain  from  enjoying  herself  until  my  gentle- 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE.  57 

man's  spirits  look  up,  and  to  be  gloomy  because  he  is  gloomy.'' 

"  But,  mother,  the  peculiarity  of  imagination  is — " 

"  What  sort  of  imaginations  are  they,  I  should  like  to 
know,"  resumed  Madame  Guillaume,  again  interrupting  her 
daughter,  "  There  seem  to  be  some  fine  ones  indeed.  What 
sort  of  a  man  is  he  who  suddenly  takes  it  into  his  head,  with- 
out consulting  a  doctor,  to  eat  nothing  but  vegetables  ?  If 
he  did  it  from  religious  motives,  well  and  good ;  his  abstinence 
must  be  of  some  use  to  him  ;  but  he  has  no  more  religion  than 
a  Huguenot.  Did  ever  one  hear  of  a  man  caring  more,  as  he 
does,  for  horses  than  for  his  neighl)or,  getting  his  hair  curled 
like  a  pagan,  wrapping  statutes  in  muslin,  and  closing  shutters 
in  the  daytime  to  work  by  lamplight?  No,  really  if  he  were  not 
so  flagrantly  immoral,  he  ought  to  be  sent  to  the  Petite-Maison. 
Consult  Monsieur  Loraux,  the  vicar  of  St.  Sulpice ;  take  his  ad. 
vice  upon  the  whole  matter,  and  he  will  tell  you  that  your 
husband's  conduct  is  not  that  of  a  Christain." 

**  Oh,  mother,  can  you  believe — " 

**  Oh,  yes,  I  do  believe  !  You  loved  him  and  don't  observe 
these  things.  But  for  my  part  I  remember  having  met  him  in 
the  Champs-Elysdes  very  shortly  after  his  marriage.  He  was 
on  horseback.  Well,  at  one  time  he  would  start  off  at  full 
gallop,  and  then  the  next  he  would  stop  and  go  at  a  snail's  pace ; 
I  said  to  myself  then,  '  That  man  wants  judgment.' " 

"  Ah  !"  exclaimed  M.  Guillaume,  rubbing  his  hands,  "  it  was 
well  I  had  your  fortune  settled  to  your  separate  use  when  I  let 
you  marry  such  a  queer  character." 

When  Augustine  had  the  imprudence  to  relate  the  real 
grievences  which  she  had  against  her  husband,  the  two  old 
folks  was  struck  dumb  with  indignation.  The  word  divorce 
soon  fell  from  the  lips  of  Madame  Guillaume  and  aroused  the 
retired  old  tradesman. 

Spurred  by  the  love  which  he  entertained  for  his  daughter  as 
well  as  by  the  excitement  which  a  legal  process  would  impart 
to  his  endless  life,  father  Guillaume  spoke  up.     He  assumed 


68  BALZAC. 

the  lead  and  conduct  of  the  divorce  suit,  began  almost  to 
plead  it,  offered  his  daughter  to  pay  all  the  costs,  to  see  the 
judges,  attorneys,  and  advocates,  and  to  move  heaven  and 
earth. 

Madame  de  Sommervieux  became  alarmed,  declined  he^ 
father's  services,  declared  that  she  would  not  be  separated  from 
her  husband,  even  if  she  was  rendered  ten  times  more  unhappy ; 
and  said  no  more  about  her  troubles.  After  being  loaded  by 
her  parents  with  all  those  little  attentions  and  unspoken  con- 
solations by  which  the  two  old  people  vainly  endeavored  to 
soothe  the  sorrows  of  her  heart,  Augustine  withdrew,  feeling 
the  impossibility  of  getting  ordinary  minds  to  form  a  just  esti- 
mate of  superior  beings.  She  found  that  a  woman  must  conceal 
from  every  one,  even  from  her  parents,  misfortunes  for  which 
it  is  so  difficult  to  enlist  sympathy.  The  storms  and  troubles 
of  superior  spheres  can  only  be  appreciated  by  the  lofty  spirits 
which  inhabit  them.  In  every  crisis  we  can  be  judged  only  by 
our  peers. 

So  poor  Augustine  found  herself  once  more  in  the  chilling 
atmosphere  of  hope,  abandoned  to  her  own  terrible  reflections. 

Study  was  nothing  to  her  now,  since  it  had  failed  to  win 
back  her  husband's  heart.  Initiated  into  the  secrets  of  those 
fiery  souls,  but  not  possessing  their  resources,  she  was  con- 
demned to  share  their  pains  without  partaking  of  their  pleasures. 
She  had  contracted  a  distaste  for  the  world,  which  seemed  to 
her  mean  and  paltry  in  the  presence  of  the  grand  catastro- 
phes of  passion.     In  short,  her  life  was  a  failure. 

One  evening  an  idea  flashed  across  her  mind,  and  lighted 
up  as  with  some  celestial  ray,  her  sombre  sorrows. 

Such  an  idea  could  have  commended  itself  only  to  a  heart 
so  pure  and  virtuous  as  Augustine's.  She  made  up  her  mind 
to  go  to  the  Duchess  of  Carigliano,  not  to  ask  her  to  restore 
her  husband's  heart,  but  to  learn  the  artifices  by  which  he  had 
been  torn  away  from  her ;  to  excite  in  the  haughty  woman  of 
the  world  an  interest  in  the  mother  of  her  lover's  children  ;  to 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE.  69 

work  upon  her  feelings  and  make  her  the  accomplice  of  her 
future  happiness,  as  she  was  then  the  instrument  of  her  present 
misfortunes. 

And  so  one  day  it  came  to  pass  that  the  timid  Augustine, 
armed  with  supernatural  courage,  took  her  seat  in  her  carriage  at 
.  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  to  make  her  way  to  the  boudoir  of 
the  celebrated  coquette,  who  was  never  visible  at  an  earlier  hour. 
Madame  de  Sommervieux  was  as  yet  unacquainted  with  the 
old  fashioned  sumptuous  houses  of  the  Faubouig  St.  Germain. 
As  she  traversed  the  majestic  vestibules,  the  spacious  staircases, 
the  vast  saloons  adorned  with  flowers  in  the  depth  of  winter, ' 
and  furnished  in  that  good  taste  which  is  pecular  to  woman  to 
whom  opulence  and  habits  of  aristocratic  distinction  are 
familiar  from  the  cradle,  she  felt  a  painful  tightness  at  the  heart. 
She  was  envious  of  the  secrets  of  that  elegance  of  which  she  had 
never  had  a  notion.  She  breathed  an  atmosphere  of  grandeur 
which  revealed  the  charm  which  that  house  exercised  upon  her 
husband.  When  she  reached  the  private  apartments  of  the 
duchess,  the  voluptuous  arrangement  of  the  furniture,  of  the 
drapery  and  the  hangings  filled  her  with  jealousy  and  a  feeling 
of  despair.  There,  even  disorder  was  graceful  and  luxury  itself 
seemed  inbued  with  a  species  of  contempt  for  wealth.  The 
perfumes  that  reigned  in  the  mild  atmosphere  of  the  apartments 
gratified  withgut  irrating  the  sense  of  smell.  The  accessories 
of  the  chamber  harmonized  with  the  view  of  grassplat  and 
evergreen  that  met  the  eye  through  the  transparent  windows. 
The  whole  aspect  of  the  place  was  seductive,  and  yet  there  was 
no  evidence  of  artifice  throughout.  The  very  spirit  of  the 
owner  of  these  apartments  could  be  traced  in  the  drawing-room 
in  which  Augustine  had  to  wait.  She  sought  to  gain  some  idea 
of  the  disposition  ot  her  rival  from  the  scattered  objects  that 
lay  before  her  ;  but  there  was  something  in  the  very 
disorder,  there  was  something  in  the  very  symmetry,  that 
was  impenetrable  to  Augustine,  something  which  was  un- 
decypherable  to  her  simplicity ;  all  that  she  could  perceive  was 


60  BALZAC. 

that  the  duchess  as  a  woman  was  a  superior  woman.  And  then 
there  occurred  to  her  this  painful  thought ;  "  Ah  me !  can  it  be 
true  that  a  fond  and  simple  heart  is  not  sufficient  for  an  artist; 
must  his  strong  mind  be  joined  by  way  of  counterpoise,  to  a 
female  heart  as  potent  as  his  own  ?  Had  I  been  educated  as 
this  siren  was,  our  weapons  would  at  least  have  been  equal 
when  the  contest  began." 

"  But  I  am  not  at  home."  Such  were  the  few  harsh  words, 
which  though  uttered  in  a  low  voice  in  the  adjoining  room, 
Augustine  overheard.     They  set  her  heart  a-beating. 

"  But  the  lady  is  there,"  answered  the  lady's  maid. 

"  You  must  have  lost  your  wits.  Show  her  in,"  replied  the 
duchess  in  a  voice  which  had  now  lost  its  harshness  and 
assumed  the  soft  accent  of  politeness.  Now  it  was  clear  that 
she  meant  that  what  she  said  should  be  overheard. 

Augustine  stepped  timidly  forward  and  saw  the  duchess  in- 
dolently reclining  on  a  brown  velvet  ottoman  at  the  end  of  the 
boudoir.  The  ottoman  was  placed  in  the  centre  of  a  sort  of 
semicircle  formed  by  soft  folds  of  muslin  which  covered  some 
yellow  material.  Ornaments  of  gilded  bronze  artistically 
arranged  gave  a  heightened  tone  to  this  kind  of  dais,  under 
which  the  duchess  lay  like  some  antique  statue.  The  deep- 
coloured  velvet  brought  into  full  play  everything  that  could 
add  to  the  effect.  The  subdued  light,  favorable.to  her  beauty, 
seemed  to  be  reflected  rather  than  direct.  A  few  choice  flowers 
raised  their  scented  blossoms  from  vases  of  the  richest  Sevres. 
Just  as  this  tableau  met  the  eye  of  the  astonished  Augustine, 
she  caught,  so  noiseless  had  been  her  approach,  a  glance  cast  by 
the  enchantress.  This  glance  seemed  to  say  to  a  person,  whom 
the  artist's  wife  had  not  at  first  observed,  "  Don't  go,  you  will 
see  a  pretty  woman  and  render  her  visit  less  tiresome 
to  me." 

At  the  sight  of  Augustine  the  duchess  rose  and  made  her  sit 
down  beside  her.     Then  with  a  charming  smile  she  inquired, — 

"  To  what  am  I  indebted  for  this  agreeable  visit,  madam  ?  " 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE.  61 

Why  such  duplicity  ?  thought  Augustine,  who  only  answered 
with  a  bow. 

Her  silence  was  enforced.  The  young  wife  saw  before  her 
an  observer  of  the  scene  who  was  entirely  de  trap.  This  person 
was  the  youngest,  the  most  elegant,  and  the  best  built  of  all  the 
colonels  of  the  imperial  army.  His  half-dress  uniform  set  off 
to  the  utmost  advantage  the  graces  of  his  person. 

His  face  which  beemed  with  life  and  youth,  and  was  already 
full  of  expression,  derived  further  animation  from  the  small 
moustaches  turned  up  and  drawn  out  into  a  point  and  black 
as  jet ;  from  the  thick  imperial,  carefully  combed  whiskers,  and 
the  forest  of  black  hair  now  considerably  disarranged.  He 
was  playing  with  a  whip  and  wore  an  air  of  ease  and  freedom 
which  suited  the  self-satisfied  aspect  of  his  features  and  the 
neatness  of  his  dress.  The  ribands  attached  to  his  buttenhole 
were  negligently  tied  and  he  seemed  much  vainer  of  his  hand- 
some figure  than  of  his  courage.  Augustine  looked  from  the 
duchess  to  the  colonel  with  a  glance  whose  petition  was 
thoroughly  comprehended. 

"  Well,  good  bye,  M.  d'Aiglcmont,  we  shall  meet  again  at 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne." 

These  words  were  uttered  by  the  duceess  as  if  they  were  the 
result  of  an  understanding  arrived  at  previously  to  Augustine's 
arrival;  and  they  were  accompanied  by  a  threatening  look  which 
the  young  officer  perhaps  deserved,  on  account  of  his  evident 
admiration  for  the  modest  flower  of  beauty  who  contrasted  so 
well  with  the  haughty  duchess.  The  young  fop  bowed  silently, 
turned  on  his  heal,  and  walked  gracefully  out  of  the  boudoir. 
At  that  moment,  Augustine,  who  was  watching  her  rival  as  she 
pursued  with  her  eyes  the  dashing  officer,  detected  in  the 
glance  a  trace  of  that  feeling  whose  fugitive  expressions  are 
known  to  every  woman.  She  thought  with  the  profoundes* 
sorrow  that  her  visit  would  be  thrown  away ;  the  crafty  duchess 
was  to  eager  for  homage  to  be  merciful. 

"  Madame."  said  Auf?ustine,  in  a  broken  voice,  "the  step 


62  BALZAC. 

which  I  am  now  taking  in  coming  to  you  will  seem  to  you  very 
extraordinary;  but  the  madness  of  despair  ought  to  excuse 
everything.  I  now  understand  too  well  why  Theodore  prefers 
your  house  to  any  other,  and  why  your  mind  exercises  so  great 
an  influence  over  his.  Alas,  I  have  only  to  look  into  my  own 
breast  to  discover  reasons  more  than  enough.  But,  madame, 
I  adore  my  husband.  Two  years  of  sorrow  have  not  erased 
his  image  from  my  heart,  though  he  is  lost  to  me.  In  my 
madness  I  have  dared  to  entertain  the  idea  of  measuring  my- 
self with  you,  and  I  have  come  to  see  how  I  can  triumph  over 
you.  Oh,  madame!"  exclaimed  the  young  wife,  eagerly  seizing 
the  hand  which  her  rival  abandoned  to  ner,  "  I  shall  never  pray 
to  God  for  my  own  happiness  with  such  fervor  as  I  will  entreat 
Him  for  yours,  if  you  will  aid  me  to  regain,  I  do  not  say  the 
love,  but  merely  the  friendship  of  Sommervieux.  My  only 
hope  is  in  you.  Oh,  tell  me  how  you  won  his  heart,  and  made 
him  forgetful  of  the  first  days  of " 

At  these  words  Augustine  was  forced  to  stop,  choked  with 
the  sobs  which  she  could  not  restrain  :  ashamed  of  her  weak- 
ness she  hid  her  face  in  her  handkerchief,  which  was  soon 
deluged  with  her  tears. 

"  Why  what  a  child  you  are,  my  little  beauty,"  said  the 
duchess,  for  whom  the  novelty  of  the  scene  had  a  certain 
charm,  and  who  was  touched  in  spite  of  herself  by  the  homage 
paid  to  her  by  perhaps  the  most  spotless  woman  in  Paris.  So 
saying  she  took  Augustine's  handkerchief,  and  began  to  wipe 
her  eyes  with  it,  accompanying  the  process  with  sundry 
monosyllabic  murmurs  of  graceful  pity.  After  a  moment's 
silence  the  coquette,  imprisoning  poor  Augustine's  pretty 
hands  in  her  own,  which  were  specially  remarkable  for  their 
beauty  and  their  power,  said  in  a  gentle  and  affectionate 
tone, — 

"  My  first  advise  to  you  is  not  to  cry  so ;  crying  makes 
people  ugly.  You  must  make  short  work  with  troubles  which 
cause  illness,  for  love  cannot  long  survive  a  sick-bed.     Tnif^  !•" 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE.  68 

is  that  melancholy  lends  at  first  a  certain  engaging  chann,  but 
in  the  long-run  it  draws  the  features,  and  withers  the  most 
charming  face ;  and  then  our  tyrants  are  so  vain  that  they 
want  their  poor  slaves  to  be  always  gay." 

"Ah,  madame,  I  cannot  control  my  feelings.  How  is  it 
possible  without  experiencing  a  thousand  deaths  to  see  a  face 
once  radiant  with  love  and  joy,  gloomy,  pale,  indifferent?  Oh, 
I  cannot  command  my  feelings." 

"  So  much  the  worse,  my  darling,  but  I  believe  I  already 
know  your  whole  story.  In  the  first  place  make  sure  of  this ; 
if  your  husband  has  been  faithless  to  you,  /am  not  his  accom- 
plice. If  I  made  it  a  point  to  have  him  at  my  receptions,  it 
was,  I  freely  admit,  from  mere  vanity ;  he  was  famous  and 
went  nowhere.  I  like  you  already  too  well  to  give  you  a  list 
of  the  follies  he  has  been  guilty  of  on  my  account.  I  will 
merely  show  you  one  of  them,  because  it  will  perhaps  help  us 
to  restore  him  to  you,  and  to  punish  him  for  the  audacity  of  his 
proceedings  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  If  he  went  on  he 
would  compromise  me.  I  know  the  world  too  well,  my  dear, 
to  be  willing  to  place  myself  at  the  mercy  of  a  man  of  very 
great  talent.  To  allow  them  to  pay  their  addresses  to  us  is 
very  well,  but  as  to  marrying  them,  that  is  a  mistake.  We 
women  may  admire  men  of  genius,  enjoy  them  as  we  do  a 
spectacle,  but  as  for  living  with  them ;  oh,  never.  Why  'tis 
like  seeking  amusement  by  looking  at  the  machinery  behind 
the  stage  of  the  opera,  instead  of  sticking  to  one's  box  and 
enjoying  the  brilliant  illusions.  But  in  your  case,  my  poor 
child,  the  mischief  is  done,  is  it  not  ?  Well,  then,  we  must 
try  to  furnish  you  with  weapons  against  tyranny." 

"  Oh,  madame,  before  I  came  into  this  room  and  saw 
you,  I  already  recognized  certain  artifices  which  I  did  not 
suspect." 

"  Well,  come  and  see  me  occasionally  and  you  will  very  soon 
have  the  secret  of  these  trifles,  which  by  the  way  are  very  im- 
portant trifles.     External  objects  are  for  fools,  the  full  half  of 


64  BALZAC. 

existence ;  and  in  that  respect  more  than  one  man  of  talent  is 
a  fool  in  spite  of  all  his  art.  But  I  will  take  on  me 
to  say,  that  you  have  never  let  Theodore  know  what  a  refusal 
is." 

"  How,  madame,  can  one  refuse  anything  to  the  man  one 
loves  ?  " 

"  You  innocent  little  creature,  I  could  dote  on  you  for  your 
silliness.  Learn  this  ;  the  more  we  love  the  more  should  we 
endeavor  to  conceal  the  strength  of  our  passion  from  the  man 
we  love.  It  is  the  one  who  loves  most  who  is  trampled  on 
and,  what  is  worse,  deserted,  sooner  or  later.  He  who  would 
reign  must — " 

"  What,  madame,  must  one  then  dissimulate,  calculate, 
become  false,  create  for  one's  self  an  artificial  character  and 
maintain  it  ?    Oh,  how  can  one  live  so  ?    Can  you    .     .    .  ? '» 

She  hesitated ;  the  duchess  smiled. 

"My  dear,"  resumed  the  great  lady  in  a  serious  voice, 
"conjugal  happiness  has  been  at  all  times  a  speculation, 
a  matter  of  business.  If  you  persist  in  talking  passion, 
when  I  am  talking  marriage,  we  shall  very  soon  fail  to 
understand  each  other.  Listen  to  me,"  she  continued  with  a 
confidential  air.  "  I  have  been  in  a  position  to  observe  some 
of  the  most  eminent  men  of  this  age.  Those  who  have  mar- 
ried, have,  with  few  exceptions,  married  commonplace  women. 
Well,  those  women  governed  them  as  the  emperor  governs  us, 
and  were,  if  not  loved,  at  least  respected  by  their  husbands. 
I  am  sufficiently  fond  of  secrets,  especially  of  those  which  con- 
cern us  women,  to  have  taken  a  pleasure  in  finding  the  solution 
of  this  enigma.  Well,  my  angel,  these  good  women  had  the 
faculty  of  analyzing  the  characters  of  their  husbands.  Without 
being  alarmed,  like  you,  at  the  superiority  of  their  husbands, 
they  adroitly  noticed  in  what  qualities  they  v.'cre  deficient ; 
and  whether  it  was  that  the  wives  possessed  those  qualities,  or 
only  pretended  to  possess  them,  they  managed  to  make  such  a 
display  of  them  in  the  eyes  of  their  husbands  that  in  the  end 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE.  65 

they  inspired  respect.  Lastly,  remember  that  these  minds 
which  seem  so  lofty  are  all  slightly  infected  with  madness,  of 
which  we  ought  to  know  how  to  take  advantage.  By  making 
up  our  minds  to  get  the  upperhand  of  them,  by  sticking  to 
that  one  object  and  in  the  midst  of  all  our  actions,  thoughts, 
and  coquetries,  keeping  it  steadily  in  view,  we  subdue  these 
eminently  capricious  spirits;  the  very  nobility  of  their  ideas 
furnishes  us  with  the  means  of  influencing  them." 

"  Oh,  heavens,"  cried  the  young  wife  in  terror.  "  This  then 
is  life.     It's  a  combat." 

"  Yes,  a  combat  in  which  you  must  be  always  threatening 
an  attack,"  resumed  the  duchess  with  a  laugh.  Our  power  is 
altogether  factitious.  So  we  must  never  allow  a  man  to  des- 
pise us ;  to  recover  from  such  a  fall  one  must  resort  to  odious 
manoeuvres.  Come  with  me,"  she  added.  "  I  am  going  to 
give  you  the  means  of  binding  your  husband." 

She  rose  and  laughingly  conducted  the  young  and  innocent 
apprentice  to  the  tricks  of  matrimony,  through  the  mazes  of 
her  little  palace.  They  reached  a  private  staircase  which  led 
to  the  reception-rooms.  As  the  duchess  was  turning  the 
handle  of  the  door,  she  stopped,  looked  at  Augustine  with  an 
inimitable  air  of  subtilty  and  grace,  and  said,  "  Look  here,  the 
Duke  de  Carigliano  worships  me ;  well,  he  dare  not  come  in 
by  this  door  without  my  permission.  And  he  is  a  man  who  is 
accustomed  to  command  thousands  of  soldiers.  He  can  assail 
a  battery,  but  in  my  presence — he  is  afraid." 

Augustine  sighed.  They  reached  a  splendid  gallery,  and 
there  the  duchess  led  the  painter's  wife  to  the  portrait  which 
Theodore  had  painted  of  Mademoiselle  Guillaume.  When 
Augustine  caught  sight  of  it  she  shrieked. 

"  I  knew  well  it  was  no  longer  in  my  house,"  said  she,  "  but 
—here  !" 

"  My  Uttle  darling,  I  merely  demanded  it  in  order  to  learn 
of  what  folly  a  man  of  genius  may  be  guilty.  Sooner  or  later 
I  r.hoiild  have  returned  i|  fa  you,  for  I  did  not  look  forward  to 


66  BALZAC. 

the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  original  here,  before  the  copy. 
While  we  finish  our  chat,  I  will  have  it  taken  to  your  carriage. 
If,  armed  with  this  talisman  you  are  not  your  husband's  mis- 
tress for  a  hundred  years,  you  are  not  a  woman,  and  you  will 
deserve  your  fate." 

Augustine  kissed  the  hand  of  the  duchess,  who  pressed  her 
to  her  heart,  and  embraced  her  with  a  tenderness  all  the  more 
lively  because  she  would  be  forgotten  on  the  morrow.  This 
scene  would  perhaps  have  destroyed  for  ever  the  candor  and 
purity  of  Augustine,  to  whom  the  secrets  revealed  by  the 
duchess  might  do  as  much  harm  as  good;  for  the  astute  policy 
of  the  loftiest  social  sphere,  did  not  commend  itself  to  Augus- 
tine, any  more  than  the  narrow  common  sense  of  Joseph 
Lebas,  or  the  stupid  morality  of  Madame  Guillaume.  Strange 
result  of  the  false  positions  into  which  we  are  thrown  by  the 
least  blunders  committed  in  life  !  Augustine  was  like  some 
Alpine  shepherd  overtaken  by  an  avalanche ;  if  he  hesitates  or 
listens  to  the  cries  of  his  companions,  he  generally  perishes. 
In  these  grand  crises  the  heart  is  broken  or  is  bronzed.  Mad- 
ame de  Sommervieux  went  home  in  a  fit  of  agitation  which  it 
would  be  difficult  to  describe.  Her  conversation  with  the 
Duchess  of  Carigliano  awakened  in  her  breast  a  thousand 
conflicting  ideas.  Like  the  sheep  in  the  fable,  full  of  boldness 
when  the  wolf  is  away,  she  harangued  herself  and  traced  out 
for  herself  admirable  plans  of  conduct :  she  invented  a 
thousand  schemes  of  coquetry,  she  even  addressed  her  husband, 
discovering,  in  his  absence,  all  the  resources  of  that  genuine 
eloquence  which  never  deserts  women ;  and  then  as  she 
thought  of  the  clear  and  steady  gaze  of  Theodore,  she  began 
to  tremble,  even  in  his  absence. 

When  she  asked  whether  her  husband  was  at  home  her  voice 
failed  her.  When  she  heard  that  he  would  not  come  back  to 
dinner  she  felt  an  inexplicable  sensation  of  delight.  She 
resembled  the  criminal  who  appeals  from  his  death  sentence  ; 
a  delay,  however  brief,   seems  like  a  whole  lifetime.      She 


THE  CAT  AND  BATTLEDORE.  67 

placed  the  portrait  in  her  own  room,  and  waited  for  her 
husband  in  all  the  agonies  of  hope.  She  felt  so  sure  that  this 
attempt  of  hers  would  be  decisive  of  her  whole  future,  that 
she  trembled  at  every  noise,  even  at  the  ticking  of  her  time- 
piece, which  seemed  to  add  weight  to  her  terrors  by  measuring 
them.  She  tried  to  while  away  the  time  by  a  thousand  devices 
She  took  it  into  her  head  to  dress  herself  just  as  she  was 
dressed  in  the  portrait.  Then,  conscious  of  the  restlessness 
of  her  husband's  disposition,  she  caused  her  room  to  be 
lighted  up  with  unaccustomed  brilliancy,  feeling  sure  that  in- 
quisitiveness  would  attract  her  husband  to  her  chamber  on  his 
return.  It  was  striking  twelve  when  at  the  sound  ot  the 
postilion's  voice,  the  gate  of  the  hotel  flew  open,  and  the 
artist's  carriage  rolled  over  the  pavement  of  the  silent  court- 
yard. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  illumination?"  asked  Theo- 
dore in  a  gay  tone,  as  he  entered  his  wife's  room. 

Augustine  adroitly  seized  the  propitious  moment,  threw  her 
arm  round  her  husband's  neck  and  pointed  to  the  portrait. 
The  artist  stood  motionless  as  a  rock  and  turned  his  eyes  now 
on  Augustine,  and  now  on  the  accusing  toilette.  The  timid 
wife,  half  dead  with  fear,  who  was  watching  the  changing,  the 
awe-inspiring  brow  of  her  husband,  saw  its  expressive  lines 
mass  by  degrees  like  clouds.  Then  she  fancied  she  could  feel 
the  blood  freezing  in  her  veins,  as  with  flaring  eye  and  deep 
and  hollow  voice  he  asked, — 

"  Where  did  you  find  that  picture  ?** 

"  The  Duchess  de  Carigliano  restored  it  to  me." 

"  Did  you  ask  her  for  it?" 

"  I  did  not  even  know  she  had  it." 

The  sweetness,  nay  the  enchanting  melody  of  the  voice  of 
such  an  angel,  would  have  softened  the  heart  of  a  cannibal, 
but  not  that  of  an  artist  suffering  from  the  tortures  of  wounded 
vanity. 

•"  That  is  an  act  well  worthy  of  her,"  cried  the  painter  in  a 


68  BALZAC. 

voice  of  thunder.  "  I  will  revenge  myself,"  he  added,  striding 
about  the  room.  "She  shall  die  disgraced  for  having  done 
this ;  I  will  paint  her,  yes,  I  will  represent  i)er  in  the  character 
of  Messalina  stealing  by  night  from  the  palace  of  Claudius." 

"Theodore  !"  exclaimed  a  dying  voice. 

"  I  will  murder  her." 

"  My  friend." 

"  She  is  in  love  with  that  little  cavalry  colonel,  because  he  is 
a  good  horseman." 

"  Theodore." 

"  Oh,  leave  me,"  said  the  painter  to  his  wife,  in  a  voice 
which  resembled  a  roar. 

It  would  be  odious  to  describe  the  whole  of  this  scene, 
towards  the  end  of  which  the  intoxication  of  anger  drove  the 
painter  to  language  and  gestures  which  an  older  woman  than 
Augustine  would  have  attributed  to  phrenzy.  About  eight 
o'clock  the  next  morning,  Madame  Guillaume,  breaking  in 
upon  her  daughter,  found  her  pale,  red-eyed,  and  with  dis- 
hevelled hair,  holding  in  her  hand  a  handkerchief  drenched 
with  tears,  and  gazing  at  the  fragments  of  a  tattered  dress  and 
a  large  gilt  picture-frame  that  lay  scattered  on  the  floor. 
Augustine,  who  was  almost  mad  with  grief,  pointed  to  the 
wreck  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"  Ah,  it  may  be  a  very  serious  loss,"  cried  the  old  regent  of 
the  Chat-qui-pelote.  "  It  was  certainly  very  like  you ;  but  I 
have  heard  of  a  man  on  the  boulevards  who  paints  charming 
portraits  for  150  francs  apiece." 

"  Oh,  mother." 

"  My  poor  darling,  you  are  quite  right,"  answered  Madame 
Guillaume,  who  misinterpreted  the  meaning  of  the  look  which 
her  daughter  cast  at  her.  "  Never  mind,  my  child.  No  one 
can  love  so  tenderiy  as  a  mother.  I  can  understand  it  all,  my 
darling ;  but  come  and  tell  me  all  your  troubles,  and  I  will 
comfort  you.     Have  I  not  told  you  already  that  the  man  is  mad. 


THE  OAT  AND  BATTLEDOBB.  69 

'/our  maid  has  told  me  some  queer  things  about  him.  Why, 
he  must  be  a  regular  monster." 

Augustine  placed  her  finger  on  her  pale  lips,  as  if  to  implore 
her  mother  to  be  silent  for  an  instant.  During  that  terrible 
night,  misfortune  had  taught  her  that  patient  resignation,  which 
seems,  in  the  case  of  mothers  and  of  women  who  love,  to 
transcend  the  limits  of  human  strength,  and  shows,  perhaps, 
that  there  are  certain  chords  in  the  female  heart  which  God 
has  denied  to  men. 

An  inscription  on  a  tombstone  in  the  cemetery  of  Montmartre 
shows  that  Madame  de  Sommervieux  died  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
seven.  In  the  simple  lines  of  that  epitaph,  a  friend  of  the 
timid  creature  recognizes  the  last  scene  of  a  tragedy.  On  the 
solemn  festival  of  the  2nd  of  November  in  each  year,  that 
friend,  as  he  passes  the  recent  gravestone,  asks  himself  the 
question,  whether  the  powerful  embrace  of  genius  does  not  re- 
quire women  of  a  robuster  type  than  poor  Augustine  ? 

"  It  may  be,"  such  is  his  internal  reflection,  "  that  these 
humble  and  modest  flowers  of  the  valley,  perish  when  they  are 
transplanted  to  a  too  elevated  region,  the  sphere  of  gathering 
'  "m^ests  and  of  scorching  suas." 


THE  VENDETTA. 

(La  Vendetta.) 

dedicated  to  puttinati,  sculptor,  of  milan. 

Towards  the  end  of  October  in  the  year  1800,  a  foreignei 
accompanied  by  his  wife  and  child  arrived  in  front  of  the 
Tuileries,  and  planted  himself  for  a  considerable  time  near  the 
debris  of  a  house,  then  recently  demolished,  on  the  spot  now 
occupied  by  the  unfinished  wing  which  was  to  connect  the 
palace  of  Catharine  de  Medici  with  the  Louvre  of  the  Valois. 
There  he  remained  with  folded  arms  and  bowed  head,  which 
he  raised  from  time  to  time  to  look  at  the  consular  palace,  and 
at  his  wife,  who  was  seated  near  him  on  a  stone.  Although 
the  female  foreigner  seemed  to  be  confining  her  attention  to 
the  little  girl  of  nine  or  ten,  whose  raven  locks  were  as  a  play- 
thing in  her  hands,  she  did  not  miss  one  of  the  looks  which 
her  companion  directed  to  her.  A  single  sentiment,  other  than 
love,  united  these  two  beings,  and  imparted  the  same  uneasi- 
ness to  their  movements  and  their  thoughts.  Poverty  is  per- 
haps the  most  potent  of  all  bonds.  The  foreigner  had  one  of 
those  large,  massive,  hair-abounding  heads  which  are  so  often 
to  be  met  with  in  the  paintings  of  the  Caracci.  His  jet-black 
locks  were  interspersed  with  a  large  number  of  white  hairs. 
His  features,  though  noble  and  lofty,  were  marred  by  an  air  of 
harshness.  In  spite  of  his  strength  and  upright  figure,  he 
seemed  to  be  over  sixty.  The  style  of  his  much-worn  garments 
showed  that  he  came  from  a  foreign  land.  Although  the  once 
handsome,  but  now  faded,  features  of  the  woman  bespoke  a 
profound  melancholy,  yet  when  her  husband  looked  at  her  she 
forced  a  smile  and  assumed  an  heir  of  calmness.  The  young 
girl  remained  standing,  though  it  was  clear  from  the  appearance 


72  BALZAC. 

of  her  youthful  sun-burnt  face  that  she  was  tired.  Her  features 
were  of  the  Italian  cast ;  she  had  large  black  eyes  shaded  by 
strongly  arched  brows,  a  certain  native  nobility  and  genuine 
grace.  Not  a  few. of  those  who  passed  this  group  were  moved 
at  the  mere  sight  of  these  three  persons,  who  made  no  effort  to 
conceal  a  despair  which  was  as  profound  as  its  expression  was 
simple.  But  the  source  of  this  transient  kindness,  which 
characterizes  the  Parisian,  was  soon  exhausted  ;  for  so  soon  as 
the  stranger  saw  that  the  attention  of  some  idler  was  attracted 
to  himself,  he  looked  upon  him  with  so  fierce  an  air  that  the 
boldest  flaneur  quickened  his  step  as  if  he  had  trodden  on  a 
serpent.  After  having  remained  for  a  long  time  in  a  state  of 
indecision,  the  tall  stranger  suddenly  passed  his  hand  across  his 
forehead,  chased  from  it,  so  to  speak,  the  thoughts  which  had 
gathered  it  into  furrows,  and  evidently  made  up  his  mind  to 
some  desperate  step.  Casting  a  penetrating  glance  at  his  wife 
and  daughter,  he  drew  a  long  poinard  from  his  bosom,  held  it 
out  to  his  companion,  and  said  to  her  in  Italian,  "  I  am  going 
to  see  whether  the  Bonapartes  remember  us."  Then  he  walked 
with  a  slow,  firm  step  towards  the  entrance  of  the  palace, 
where  he  was,  as  was  to  be  expected,  stopped  by  a  soldier  of 
the  consular  guard,  with  whom  he  was  prevented  from  having 
a  long  discussion ;  for,  perceiving  the  old  man's  persistence, 
the  sentinel  pointed  his  bayonet  at  him  by  way  of  ultimatum. 
As  chance  would  have  it,  the  soldier  upon  guard  was  at  that 
very  moment  relieved,  and  the  corporal  with  great  civility 
directed  the  foreigner  to  the  spot  where  he  would  find  the 
commandant  of  the  station. 

"  Let  Bonaparte  know  that  Bartholom^o  de  Piombo  wishes 
to  speak  to  him,"  said  the  Italian  to  the  captain  on  duty.  It 
was  all  very  well  for  the  ofiicer  to  represent  to  Bartholomdo  that 
the  first  Consul  was  not  to  be  seen  unless  a  written  request 
for  an  audience  had  been  previously  laid  before  him ;  the 
foreigner  insisted  that  the  soldier  should  carry  the  intimation 
^0  Bonaparte.     The  officer  opposed  him  on  the  ground  of  thg 


THE  VEltoETTA  73 

positive  regulations,  and  formally  declined  to  obey  the  order  of 
this  singular  petitioner.  Bartholomdo  frowned,  darted  at  the 
commandant  a  terrible  look,  and  seemed  to  hold  him  responsi- 
ble for  the  evils  which  might  result  from  this  refusal.  Then, 
without  another  word,  he  folded  his  arms  firmly  across  his 
chest  and  proceeded  to  take  up  his  position  under  the  portico, 
which  serves  for  a  communication  between  the  court  and  the 
gardens  of  the  Tuileries.  Persons  who  have  a  strong  desire 
for  anything  are  almost  always  well  backed  by  chance.  At  the 
moment  when  Bartholomdo  de  Piombo  sat  down  on  one  of 
the  railings  near  the  entrance  to  the  Tuileries,  a  carriage  drove 
up,  and  set  down  Lucien  Bonaparte,  then  minister  of  the 
interior. 

"  Ah,  T.ucien,  it  is  very  lucky  for  me  that  I  met  you,"  cried 
the  stranger. 

These  words,  uttered  in  a  Corsican  patois,  arrested  Lucien 
at  the  moment  when  he  was  driving  under  the  arch ;  he 
looked  at  his  compatriot  and  recognized  him.  At  the  first 
word  that  Bartholomdo  whispered  to  him,  he  took  the  Corsican 
with  him.  Murat,  Lannes,  and  Rapp  were  in  the  first  Consul's 
closet.  On  the  entrance  of  Lucien,  followed  by  a  man  of  so 
strange  an  appearance  as  Piombo's,  the  conversation  ceased, 
Lucien  took  Napoleon's  hand  and  led  him  into  the  embra- 
sure of  the  window.  After  having  exchanged  a  few  words 
with  his  brother,  the  first  Consul  made  a  gesture  with  his 
hand,  which  Murat  and  Lannes  obeyed  by  going  away. 
Rapp  pretended  not  to  have  observed  it,  in  order  that  he 
might  remain;  but  Bonaparte  spoke  to  his  aide-de-camp 
peremptorily,  whereupon  he  sullenly  left  the  room.  The  first 
Consul,  who  heard  the  footsteps  of  Rapp  in  the  next  room, 
went  out  suddently  and  found  him  close  to  the  wall  which 
separated  the  closet  from  the  anteroom. 

"  You  are  determined  not  to  understand  me,  then  ?  "  said 
the  first  Consul.     "  I  want  to  be  alone  with  my  compatriot," 


74  BALZAC. 

"  A  Corsican,"  replied  the  aide-de-camp.  "  I  distrust  those 
people  too  much  not  to — " 

The  first  Consul  could  not  refrain  from  smiling,  and  gave 
his  faithful  officer  a  slight  push  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Well  what  have  you  come  here  for,  my  poor  Bartholom^o  ?  " 
said  the  first  Consul  to  Piombo. 

"  To  ask  you  for  an  asylum  and  for  protection,  if  you  are  a 
true  Corsican,"  answered  Bartholombo  in  a  brusque  tone. 

"  What  misfortune  has  driven  you  from  the  country  ?  you 
were  the  richest,  the  most — " 

"  I  have  killed  all  the  Portas,"  said  Piombo,  in  a  deep  voice 
and  with  a  frown. '  The  first  Consul  drew  back  two  paces,  as 
if  astonished. 

"  Are  you  going  to  betray  me  ?  "  cried  Bartholomdo  scowling 
at  Bonaparte.  "  Do  you  know  that  there  are  still  four  Piombos 
in  Corsica  ?  " 

Lucien  grasped  his  compatriot's  arm  and  shook  it,  then  said 
sharply, — 

"  Are  you  come  hither  to  threaten  the  Savior  of  France  ?  " 

Bonaparte  made  a  sign  to  Lucien,  who  said  no  more ;  then 
looking  at  Poirabo  he  said, — 

"  Why  did  you  kill  the  Portas?  " 

"  We  had  struck  up  a  friendship,"  he  answered,  "  the  Bar- 
bantis  had  reconciled  us.  On  the  morrow  of  the  day  on  which 
we  drowned  our  quarrels  in  a  friendly  cup,  I  left  them,  because 
I  had  business  at  Bastia.  They  remained  at  my  house  and  set 
fire  to  my  vineyard  at  Longuel ;  they  killed  my  son  Gr^gorio. 
But  my  wife  and  daughter,  who  had  taken  the  sacrament  that 
morning,  and  were  under  the  special  protection  of  the  Virgin, 
escaped.  When  I  returned  I  could  not  see  my  house ;  as  I 
searched  for  it  my  feet  were  upon  ashes.  AD  at  once  I 
stumbled  against  the  body  of  Gr^gorio  which  I  recognized  by 
the  light  of  the  moon.  *  Ah,  the  Portas  have  struck  this  blow,* 
I  said  to  myself.  I  went  forthwith  into  the  mdquis.  I  there 
collected  certain  men  to  whom  I  have  been  of  service :  do  you 


THE  vend?:tta.  75 

understand  me,  Bonaparte  ?  and  we  marched  to  the  vineyard 
of  the  Portas.  We  reached  it  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  at  seven  they  were  all  in  the  presence  of  God.  Giacomo 
maintains  that  Elisa  Vanni  saved  one  child,  the  little  Luigi, 
but  I  myself  had  tied  him  to  his  bed  before  I  set  fire  to  the 
house.  I  left  the  island  with  my  wife  and  child  without  having 
been  able  to  ascertain  whether  Luigi  Porta  still  lived." 

Bonaparte  looked  at  Bartholomdo  with  curiosity  but  without 
surprise. 

"  How  many  were  there  of  them  ?  "  asked  Lucien. 

"Seven,"  replied  Piombo.  "They  persecuted  you  atone 
time,"  he  added;  but  as  these  words  caused  no  expression  of 
hatred  on  the  faces  of  the  two  brothers,  Bartholomdo  exclaimed 
with  a  sort  of  despairing  accent,  "  Ah  !  you  are  no  longer 
Corsicans  ;  adieu  !  I  protected  you  in  days  gone  by,"  he  added 
in  a  reproachful  tone.  "  But  for  me,  your  mother  would  not 
have  reached  Marseilles,"  said  he  addressing  Bonaparte,  who 
was  lost  in  thought,  with  his  elbow  leaning  on  the  mantlepiece. 

"  In  conscience,  Piombo,"  replied  Napoloen,  "  I  cannot 
take  you  under  my  wing.  I  am  become  the  chief  of  a  great 
nation ;  I  command  the  republic,  and  am  bound  to  see  that 
the  laws  are  executed." 

"  Ah,  ah,"  cried  Bartholomdo. 

"  But  I  can  shut  my  eyes,"  resumed  Bonaparte.  "  The 
prejudice  as  to  the  Vendetta  will  for  a  long  time  obstruct  the 
sovereignty  of  the  laws  in  Corsica,"  he  added,  speaking  to  him- 
self.    "  But  it  must  be  destroyed  at  any  price." 

Bonaparte  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  Lucien  signalled  to 
Piombo  not  to  speak.  The  Corsican  was  already  beginning  to 
shake  his  head  in  a  token  of  disapprobation. 

"  Remain  in  Paris,"  resumed  the  first  Consul,  addressing 
Bartholomdo,  "  we  shall  know  nothing  about  it.  I  will  procure 
a  purchaser  for  your  estates,  so  that  you  may  in  the  first  place 
have  something  to  live  upon.  Then  later  on,  after  the 
lapse  of  some  little  time,  we  will  think  of  you.     But  no  more 


76  BALZAC. 

Vendetta.  There  arc  no  Maquis  here.  If  you  use  the  poniard 
here,  you  must  not  hope  for  pardon.  Here  the  law  protects 
the  citizens,  and  people  don't  take  the  law  into  their  own 
hands." 

"  He  has  become  the  chief  of  a  singular  country,"  replied 
Bartholomdo,  taking  Lucien's  hand  and  squeezing  it.  "  But 
you  acknowledge  me  in  misfortune.  Now  I  am  yours  in  life 
and  to  death,  and  you  may  dispose  at  your  pleasure  of  all  the 
Piombos." 

As  he  said  this  the  forehead  of  the  Corsican  grew  smooth, 
and  he  looked  around  him  with  satisfaction. 

"  You  are  not  badly  lodged  here,"  said  he,  smiling,  as  if  he 
would  like  to  live  there.  "  And  you  are  dressed  all  in  red  like 
a  cardinal." 

"  It  depends  entirely  on  yourself  to  succeed  and  have  a 
palace  at  Paris,"  said  Bonaparte,  examining  his  compatriot  from 
head  to  foot.  "  It  will  happen  to  me  more  than  once  to  look 
round  me  in  search  of  a  devoted  friend  in  whom  I  can 
confide." 

A  sigh  of  joy  escaped  from  the  capacious  chest  of  Piombo, 
who  held  out  his  hand  to  the  first  Consul,  and  said,  "  There  is 
still  something  of  the  Corsican  left  in  you  !  " 

Bonaparte  smiled  and  gazed  in  silence  at  the  man  who  might 
be  said  to  bring  with  him  Bonaparte's  native  air,  the  air  of  that 
isle  in  which  he  had  formerly  been  so  miraculously  saved  from 
the  hatred  of  the  English  parly,  of  that  isie  which  he  was 
destined  never  to  see  again.  He  made  a  sign  to  his  brother, 
who  led  Bartholomdo  di  Piombo  away.  Lucien  anxiously 
inquired  about  the  financial  situation  of  the  ancient  protector 
of  their  family.  Piombo  took  the  minister  of  the  interior  up 
to  a  window,  pointed  out  his  wife  and  Ginevra,  both  seated  on 
a  heap  of  stones,  and  said, — 

"We  have  come  hither  from  Fontainebleau  on  foot,  and 
haven't  a  farthing." 

Lucien  gave  his  purse  to  his  compatriot,  and  advised  him  to 


THE  VENDETTA,  77 

come  the  next  day,  in  order  to  consult  about  the  means  of 
providing  some  support  for  his  family.  The  value  of  all  the 
property  which  Piombo  owned  in  Corsica  would  scarcely 
enable  him  to  live  decently  in  Paris. 

Fifteen  years  elapsed  between  the  arrival  of  the  Piombo 
family  in  Paris,  and  the  following  adventure ;  which,  without 
the  recital  of  the  preceding  events,  would  have  been  less 
intelligible. 

Servin,  one  of  our  most  distinguished  artists,  was  the- first  to 
conceive  the  idea  of  opening  a  studio  for  young  girls  desirous 
of  taking  lessons  in  painting.  He  was  a  man  of  forty,  of  pure 
morals,  entirely  devoted  to  his  art,  and  had  made  a  love-match 
with  the  daughter  of  a  general  who  had  no  fortune.  At  first, 
mothers  conducted  their  daughters  to  the  professor  in  person, 
but  subsequently,  when  they  came  to  know  his  high  principles 
and  appreciate  the  pains  he  took  to  deserve  their  confidence, 
contented  themselves  with  sending  them.  It  had  been  part  ot 
the  painter's  plan  to  accept  as  scholars  none  but  such  as  be- 
longed to  wealthy  or  highly  respectable  families ;  so  as  to  avoid 
any  criticism  as  to  the  constituent  elements  of  his  studio.  He 
even  declined  to  receive  young  girls  who  wanted  to  become 
artists  by  profession,  to  whom  it  would  have  been  necessary  to 
give  certain  instruction,  without  which  talent  in  painting  is 
impossible.  Gradually  his  prudence,  the  superiority  of  his 
method  of  initiating  his  pupils  into  the  secrets  of  the  art,  the 
feeling  of  security  arising  from  the  character  and  morals  of  the 
artist,  and  the  fact  of  his  marriage,  procured  for  him  an  excel- 
lent reputation  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  Paris.  When  a  young 
girl  exhibited  a  desire  to  learn  to  paint  or  draw,  and  her  mother 
wanted  advice  upon  the  subject,  "  Send  her  to  Servin,"  was  the 
answer  made  by  every  one.  Hence  Servin  obtained  in  the 
matter  of  girl-teaching  a  specialty,  as  Herbault  had  for  bonnets, 
Leroy  for  fashions,  and  Chevet  for  eatables.  It  was  acknow- 
ledged that  a  young  woman  who  had  taken  lessons  fiom  Servin 
could  pronounce  a  conclusive  opinion  on  the  pictures  at  the 


78  BALZAC. 

museum,  paint  a  portrait  in  superior  style,  copy  a  picture,  and 
paint  her  picture  of  genre.  Thus  this  artist  supplied  all  the 
requirements  of  the  aristocracy.  But  notwithstanding  the  con- 
nexions he  had  with  the  best  families  in  Paris  he  was  inde- 
pendent, he  was  a  patriot,  and  maintained,  no  matter  to  whom 
he  was  talking,  that  gay,  witty,  sometimes  comical  tone,  and 
that  freedom  of  judgment  which  distinguishes  painters. 

He  had  extended  his  scrupulous  precautions  even  to  the 
arrangement  of  the  place  in  which  his  scholars  studied.  The 
entrance  to  the  attic  which  surmounted  his  dwelling  had  been 
walled  up.  In  order  to  reach  that  retreat,  which  had  all  the 
sanctity  of  a  harem,  it  was  necessary  to  use  a  staircase  which 
had  been  erected  in  the  interior  of  the  house.  The  studio, 
which  occupied  all  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  was  of  those 
enormous  dimensions  which  always  surprise  the  curious,  who, 
when  they  have  climbed  to  a  height  of  sixty  feet  from  'the 
ground,  expect  to  find  the  artist  lodged  in  a  rain-spout.  This 
species  of  gallery  was  profusely  lighted  by  great  windows  fitted 
with  those  large  green  blinds,  by  means  of  which  artists  regulate 
the  light.  Caricatures,  heads  dashed  off  at  a  stroke,  either  in 
color,  or  scratched  with  the  point  of  a  knife,  crowded  the 
dark  grey  walls  and  proved  that,  allowing  for  the  different  man- 
ner of  expressing  it,  girls,  even  of  the  highest  class,  have  as 
much  folly  in  their  composition  as  men  can  possibly  have.  A 
little  stove  with  its  large  flues,  which  described  a  hideous  zig- 
zag ere  they  reached  the  regions  of  the  roof,  was  an  inevitable 
ornament  of  this  studio.  Around  the  walls  ran  a  wooden  shelf, 
supporting  plaster  models,  which  lay  scattered  in  confusion, 
being  for  the  most  part  covered  with  light  dust.  Here  and 
there,  beneath  this  shelf,  was  to  be  seen  hanging  on  a  nail,  a 
head  of  Niobe  in  her  pose  of  grief,  a  smiling  Venus,  a  hand 
thrust  brusquely  forward  like  that  of  a  beggar  asking  for  alms, 
and  sundry  korches  embrowned  with  smoke  and  looking  like 
limbs  lately  torn  from  their  coffin.  Paintings,  sketches,  man- 
nikins,  frames  without  pictures,  and  pictures  without  frames, 


THE  VENDETTA.  79 

completed  the  studio-like  character  of  this  disorderly  apartment 
— a  character  which  consists  in  an  extraordinary  mixture  oj 
ornament  and  nakedness,  of  poverty  and  richness,  of  care  and 
neglect.  This  immense  place,  in  which  everything  seems 
insignificant,  even  man,  is  suggestive  of  the  back  of  a  stage ; 
and  is  full  of  old'  clothes,  gilded  armor,  fragmen+s  of  various 
stuffs  and  machines ;  but  there  is  something  about  it  great  as 
thought ;  genius  and  death  are  there,  the  Diana  or  the  Apollo, 
close  to  a  skull  or  a  skeleton ;  beauty  and  disorder,  romance 
and  reality,  rich  colors  in  shadow,  and,  not  unfrequently,  a 
complete  though  mute  and  motionless  drama.  What  a  symbol 
of  an  artist's  brain  ! 

At  the  moment  when  this  narrative  begins,  the  brilliant  July 
sun  was  lighting  up  the  studio,  and  two  rays  of  light  shot 
through  its  whole  length  large  transparent  bands  of  gold, 
glittering  with  grains  of  dust.  A  dozen  easels  raised  their 
pointed  tops  like  ship-masts  in  a  port.  Several  young  girls 
with  their  various  faces,  attitudes,  and  dresses,  gave  life  to  the 
scene,  while  the  green  serges,  so  arranged  as  to  suit  the  require- 
ments of  each  easel,  produced  a  number  of  contrasts  and 
startling  effects  of  clear-obscure.  This  group  of  girls  was  the 
prettiest  picture  in  the  studio.  A  fair  young  creature,  very 
simply  dressed,  stood  aloof  from  her  companions  and  worked 
courageously  as  if  forecasting  misfortune.  Not  one  of  the  girls 
looked  at  her  or  spoke  to  her ;  she  was  the  prettiest,  the  most 
modest,  and  the  poorest  of  them  all. 

Two  principal  groups,  separated  one  from  the  other  by  a 
slight  space,  showed  that  there  were  two  societies  and  two 
spirits  even  in  this  studio,  where  the  differences  of  rank  and 
fortune  ought  to  have  been  forgotten.  Sitting  or  standing, 
these  young  girls,  surrounded  by  their  color-boxes,  playing 
with  pencils  or  preparing  them  for  use,  handling  their  shining 
palettes,  painting,  laughing,  singing,  giving  free  play  to  their 
natural  characters,  and  displaymg  their  natural  dispositions, 
Donstituted  a  spectacle  not  to  be  seen  by  men.     Here  a  proud, 


80  BALZAC. 

haughty,  capricious  girl,  with  raven  locks  and  beautiful  nands, 
scattered  cai  elessly  her  kindling  glances ;  there,  gay  and  heed- 
less, with  a  smile  upon  her  lips,  stood  a  girl  with  chestnut  hair 
and  white  delicate  hands,  the  true  French  maiden,  frivolous, 
unthinking,  heedless  of  aught  beyond  the  enjoyment  of  the 
passing  day.  There,  again,  was  a  girl,  dreamy,  melancholy, 
with  pallid  face,  and  head  bent  like  a  drooping  flower ;  while 
her  neighbor,. on  the  o'.her  hand,  was  tall,  indolent,  inclined  to 
oriental  habits,  and  had  a  long,  dark,  humid  eye.  This  one 
spoke  seldom,  but  pondered  and  cast  stolen  glances  at  the  head 
of  Antinous.  In  the  midst  of  the  girls,  like  the  jocoso  in  a 
Spanish  play,  stood  a  girl  who  was  full  of  wit  and  epigrammatic 
phiaies,  a  g'rl  -(»ho  embraced  all  their  movements  at  a  single 
glance,  made  them  all  laugh  and  was  perpetually  looking  up 
w'th  a  face  too  full  of  life  not  to  be  prett5\  This  girl  was  the 
leader  of  the  first  group,  which  consisted  of  the  daughters  ot 
bankers,  notaries,  and  merchants,  all  rich,  yet  all  subjected  to 
the  intangible  yet  penetrating  disdain  lavished  on  them  by  the 
other  young  girls  who  belonged  to  the  aristocracy.  These 
were  governed  by  the  daughter  of  an  officer  of  the  royal  house- 
hold, a  little  creature  equally  vain  and  foolish,  who  was  proud 
of  being  the  daughter  of  a  man  who  held  an  appointment  at 
court.  She  wished  to  appear  as  if  she  grasped  without  any 
efibrt  the  observations  of  her  master,  and  seemed  to  work  as  a 
matter  of  favor.  She  used  an  eye-glass,  always  came  late, 
elaborately  dressed,  and  entreated  her  companions  to  speak 
low.  In  this  latter  group  might  be  seen  exquisite  figures  and 
faces  full  of  distinction ;  but  the  girls  of  this  group  lacked  sim- 
plicity. Their  postures  were  elegant,  and  their  movements 
graceful,  but  there  was  a  want  of  frankness  in  their  faces,  and 
it  was  easily  seen'that  they  belonged  to  a  world  in  which  polite- 
ness gains  an  early  hold  upon  the  character  and  the  abuse  of 
social  enjoyments  kills  the  sentiments  and  developes  egotism. 
But  amongst  the  whole  assembly  were  to  be  found  childlike 
heads,  maidens  of  exquisite  purity,  faces  whose  half-opened 


THE  VENDETTA.  81 

mouths  disclosed  virgin  teeth,  while  virgin  smiles  played  upon 
the  lips.  Under  this  aspect  the  studio  did  not  look  like  a 
seraglio,  btlt  like  a  group  of  angels  seated  on  a  cloud. 

It  was  now  noon,  and  Servin  had  not  yet  shown  himself. 
For  some  days  past  he  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  time 
at  a  studio  of  his,  situated  elsewhere,  in  which  he  was  finishing 
a  picture  for  the  Exhibition.  All  at  once  Mademoiselle 
Amdie  Thirion,  the  leader  of  the  aristocrats  of  this  little 
assembly,  held  a  long  conversation  with  her  next  neighbor. 
Then  there  was  a  dead  sflence  in  the  patrician  group,  while 
the  bank  section  also  was  silent  in  surprise,  and  endeavored  to 
guess  the  subject  of  such  a  conference.  But  the  secret  of  the 
young  ultras  was  soon  divulged.  Amdlie  rose,  and  taking  up 
an  easel  which  stood  some  paces  from  her,  replaced  it  at  a 
considerable  distance  from  the  noble  group,  near  a  rough  parti- 
tion which  separated  the  studio  from  the  dark  closet  containing 
the  broken  casts,  the  paintings  rejected  by  the  professor,  and  a 
supply  of  firewood,  in  winter.  This  action  of  Amdlie's  evoked 
a  murmur  of  astonishment,  which  did  not  however  deter  her 
from  completing  the  removal  by  hastily  rolling  alongside  of 
the  easel,  the  box  of  colors,  stool,  &c.,  including  a  picture  by 
Prudhon  which  the  tardy  pupil  was  copying.  After  this  coup 
d'etat,  if  the  party  of  the  right  set  itself  silently  to  work,  that  of 
the  left  entered  into  a  long  debate. 

"  What  will  Mademoiselle  Piombo  say  to  that  ?  "  inquired  a 
young  girl  of  Mathilde  Roguin,  the  mischievous  oracle  of  the 
first  group, 

"She  is  not  a  girl  to  talk,"  replied  Mathilde;  "but  fifty 
years  hence  she  will  remember  this  insult  as  if  it  had  been 
offered  to  her  only  the  day  before,  and  will  find  a  cruel  ven- 
geance. She  is  a  person  with  whom  I  should  not  like  to  have 
a  feud." 

"The  prosecutions  to  which  those  young  ladies  are  subject- 
ing her  is  all  the  more  unkind,"  said  another  young  girl, 
"because  Mademoiselle  Ginevra  was  very  sad  the  day  before 
T 


82  BALZAC. 

yesterday  j  it  was  said  that  her  father  had  tendered  his  resigna- 
tion. So  that  this  will  be  an  addition  to  her  misfortune ;  and 
she  was  very  good  to  those  young  ladies  during  the  hundred 
days.  Did  she  ever  say  a  single  word  to  them  that  could 
wound  their  feelings  ?  On  the  contrary,  she  never  mentioned 
politics.  But  our  ultras  seem  to  be  acting  from  jealousy, 
ratlier  than  party- spirit." 

"  I  feel  inclined  to  go  and  get  Mademoiselle  Piombo's  easel 
and  place  it  next  to  mine,"  said  Maxhilde  Roguin.  She  rose 
but  sat  down  again  as  a  thought  occurred  to  her,  which  she 
expressed  in  these  words.  "  We  cannot  tell  how  a  person  of 
Mademoiselle  Ginevra's  disposition  might  take  our  civility; 
let  us  await  the  event." 

"  Eccola,"  said  the  black  eyed  girl  languidly. 

In  fact  the  sound  of  the  footsteps  of  a  person  coming  up  the 
staircase  was  heard  in  the  studio.  The  words  "  Here  she  is," 
passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  then  the  profoundest  silence 
reigned  throughout  the  room. 

"  In  order  to  explain  the  importance  of  the  ostracism  which 
Aradlie  Thirion  had  carried  into  effect,  it  is  necessary  to  add 
that  this  scene  took  place  towards  the  end  of  the  month  of  July, 
1 8 15.  The  second  return  of  the  Bourbons  had  just  dis- 
turbed many  a  friendship  which  had  resisted  the  commotion 
produced  by  the  first  restoration.  At  this  moment  the  schism 
between  the  different  members  of  nearly  every  family  caused 
a  revival  of  those  lamentable  scenes  which  soil  the  history  of 
every  country  during  periods  of  civil  or  religious  war. 
Children,  girls,  old  men,  all  felt  the  monarchical  fever  which 
consumed  the  governing  powers,  Discord  entered  every  dwell- 
ing and  distrust  stained  with  its  sombre  hues  the  most  private 
actions  and  conversations.  Ginevra  Piombo  loved,  nay,  idol- 
ized Napoleon;  how  could  she  hate  him?  The  emperor  was 
her  father's  fellow-countryman  and  benefactor.  The  Baron 
de  Piombo  was  one  of  those  servants  of  Napoleon  who  co-oper- 
ated most  efficaciously  in  bringing  about  his  return  from  the 


LA    VENDETTA.  83 

island  of  Elba.  The  old  Karon  de  Piombo,  who  was  not  only 
incapable  of  renouncing  his  political  creed,  but  even  anxious 
to  confess  it,  remained  at  Paris  in  the  midst  of  his  foes. 
Ginevra  Piombo,  therefore,  was  the  more  liable  to  be  included 
in  the  number  of  suspected  persons,  in  that  she  made  no 
secret  of  the  chagrin  which  the  second  restoration  caused  her 
family.  Perhaps  the  only  tears  which  she  had  ever  shed  were 
extorted  from  her  by  the  double  news  of  Napoleon's  captivity 
on  the  "  Bellerophon"  and  the  arrest  of  Labddoyere.  The 
young  women  composing  the  patrician  group  belonged  to  the 
highest  royalist  families  in  Paris.  It  would  be  difficult  to  give 
an  idea  of  the  over  excited  feelings  of  the  epoch,  and  of  the 
horror  in  which  the  Bonapartists  were  held.  Trifling  and  in- 
significant as  the  action  of  Amelie  Thirion  may  now  seem,  it 
was  then  a  very  natural  mode  of  expressing  hatred,  Ginevra 
Piombo,  one  of  the  earliest  of  Servin's  pupils,  had  occupied 
the  place,  of  which  it  was  desired  to  deprive  her,  since  her 
first  introduction  to  the  studio ;  the  aristocratic  group  had 
gradually  formed  itself  around  her;  to  expel  her  from  a  place 
which  in  a  certain  sense  belonged  to  her,  was  not  only  to  offer 
her  an  insult,  but  to  cause  her  a  certain  amount  of  actual 
trouble ;  for  all  artists  have  a  preference  for  some  particular 
spot  to  work  in.  But  political  dislike  had  perhaps  little  to  do 
with  the  conduct  of  this  small  cSfe  droit  of  the  studio. 
Ginevra  Piombo,  as  the  cleverest  of  Servin's  pupils,  was  the 
object  of  profound  envy.  The  master  professed  an  equal 
admiration  for  the  talents  and  for  the  character  of  this  favor- 
ite scholar,  who  served  as  the  basis  of  all  his  comparisons. 
In  short,  though  no  explanation  of  the  superiority  which  this 
young  person  possessed  over  all  who  surrounded  her  was  forth- 
coming, she  enjoyed  in  that  little  world  a  prestige  similar  to 
that  which  Bonaparte  had  with  his  soldiers.  The  aristocracy 
of  the  studio  had  for  several  days  past  plotted  the  downfall  of 
this  queen ;  but  no  one  having  as  yet  ventured  to  draw  away 
from  the  Bonapartist,  Mademoiselle  Thirion  had  just  taken  a 


84  BALZAC. 

decisive  step  in  jrder  to  make  her  compdnions  the  aCcci.  plices 
of  her  hate.  Although  Ginevra  was  sincerely  loved  by  two  or 
three  of  the  royalists,  who  had  nearly  all  been  well  schooled 
at  home  in  the  matter  of  politics,  yet,  with  that  tact  which  is 
peculiar  to  women,  they  deemed  that  they  were  bound  to 
remain  neutral  in  the  strife.  On  Ginevra's  arrival  then,  she 
was  greeted  with  a  profound  silence.  Of  all  the  young  girls 
who  had  up  to  that  time  frequented  the  studio  of  Servin,  she 
was  the  most  beautiful,  the  tallest,  and  the  most  finely  formed. 
There  was  in  her  carriage  a  certain  grace  and  nobility  which 
commanded  respect.  Her  face,  which  bore  the  imprint  ot 
intelligence,  had  a  radiant  look,  so  full  was  it  of  that  anima- 
tion which  is  peculiar  to  Corsicans,  and  not  inconsistent  with 
repose.  Her  long  hair  and  black  eyes  and  eyelashes  betokened 
passion.  Although  the  corners  of  the  mouth  were  lightly 
touched,  and  her  lips  were  somewhat  too  pronounced,  there 
was  stamped  upon  them  that  look  of  benevolence  which  the 
consciousness  of  strength  gives  to  the  strong.  By  a  singular 
caprice  of  nature  the  charm  of  the  countenance  was,  to  a 
certain  extent,  destroyed  by  a  marble  forehead  that  was  almost 
savage  in  its  pride  and  eloquent  of  the  morals  of  Corsica. 
There  was  to  be  seen  the  only  bond  which  existed  between  her 
and  her  native  land.  Throughout  the  rest  of  her  person  the 
simplicity  and  ease  of  the  belles  of  Lombardy  exerted  so 
much  charm  that  it  was  impossible  in  her  presence  to  cause 
her  the  least  pain.  So  great  was  the  attraction  she  exercised, 
that  her  father  did  not  allow  her  to  go  to  the  studio  without' 
an  attendant.  The  only  defect  of  this  truly  poetical  creature 
was  the  potency  of  a  beauty  so  fully  developed.  She  had  de 
clined  all  offers  of  marriage  from  love  for  her  father  and 
mother :  she  felt  she  was  indispensable  to  them  in  their  old 
age.  Her  taste  for  painting  had  taken  the  place  of  those 
passions  to  which  women  generally  are  subject. 

"  You  are  remarkably    silent  to-day,  young  ladies,"  she 
observed  after  having  advanced  a  few  steps  among  her  com- 


THE  VENDETTA.  86 

panions.  "  Good-day,  my  little  Laura,"  she  added  in  a  sweet 
caressing  tone,  as  she  drew  near  to  a  young  girl  who  was  paint- 
ing at  a  disiance  from  the  others.  "  That  head  is  very  good, 
the  flesh  is  a  little  too  ruddy,  but  the  whole  is  admirably 
drawn."  Laura  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  Ginevra  affec- 
tionately; and  the  faces  of  the  two  girls  glowed  with  the 
expression  of  a  mutual  regard.  A  faint  smile  played  upon  the 
lips  of  the  Italian  girl.  She  seemed  to  be  in  a  reflective  mood, 
*and  moved  slowly  towards  her  place,  glancing  listlessly  at  the 
drawings  and  paintings,  and  bidding  good-day  to  each  of  the 
girls  of  the  first-mentioned  group,  without  observing  the 
unwonted  curiosity  excited  by  her  presence.  She  looked  like 
a  queen  surrounded  by  her  court.  She  took  no  heed  of  the 
deep  silence  which  reigned  among  the  patricians,  and  passed 
in  front  of  their  camp  without  uttering  a  single  word.  So  great 
was  her  preoccupation,  that  she  took  her  seat  at  her  easel, 
opened  her  color-box,  took  up  her  brushes,  put  on  her  brown 
sleevelets,  adjusted  her  apron,  looked  at  her  picture,  and 
examined  her  palette  without  thinking,  so  to  speak,  of  what 
she  was  doing.  Every  head  in  the  plebeian  group  was  turned 
towards  her,  while  the  eyes  of  the  young  ladies  who  formed 
the  Thirion  camp  were  directed,  with  less  frankness,  yet  with 
equal  fixity,  to  Ginevra. 

"  She  does  not  notice  the  change  at  all,"  said  Mademoiselle 
Roguin.  But  at  that  moment  Ginevra  threw  ofi"the  meditative 
air  which  she  had  worn  while  contemplating  her  picture,  and 
turned  her  head  towards  the  group  of  aristocrats.  She  measured 
at  a  single  glance  the  distance  between  it  and  herself,  but  said 
nothing.  "  She  does  not  think  that  any  insult  was  intended," 
said  Mathilde.  "  She  has  neither  blushed  nor  turned  pale. 
How  annoyed  those  young  ladies  will  be  if  she  finds  her  new 
place  more  to  her  liking  than  the  old  one."  Then  addressing 
Ginevra  she  exclaimed  in  a  loud  voice,  "  You  are  quite  out  of 
line  there,  mademoiselle."  The  Italian  girl  pretended 
not  to  hear.     It  may  be    that  she    really    did  not    hear. 


86  BALZAC. 

She  rose  abriijitly,  walked  somewhat  slowly  by  the  par- 
tition which  separated  the  dark  closet  from  the  studio,  and 
a])pean'd  to  bo  examining  the  window  whence  the  light  came, 
secmir.g  to  attach  so  much  importance  to  it  that  she  mounted 
upon  a  cl  air  in  order  to  raise  the  green  serge  which  intercepted 
the  hoht,  a  good  deal  higlier.  When  upon  a  chair  she  was 
close  to  a  slight  chink  in  the  partition,  which  was  the  real  goal 
of  her  efforts  ;  for  the  look  she  cast  through  the  chink  can  be 
compared  only  to  that  of  a  miser  discovering  the  treasures  of 
Aladdin.  She  then  speedily  descended,  went  back  to  her 
place,  readjusted  her  picture,  pretended  to  be  dissatisfied  with 
the  light,  drew  a  talile  near  to  the  partition,  placed  a  chair 
upon  it,  then  mounting  upon  that  scaffolding,  looked  through 
the  chink  once  more.  It  was  but  a  single  glance  she  threw 
into  the  closet,  then  lighted  by  a  jour  de  sou f ranee  which  had 
been  opened  in  it.  What  she  saw  in  the  closet  produced  so 
lively  an  emotion  that  she  trembled.  '*  You  will  fall,  Made- 
moiselle Ginevra,"  cried  Laura. 

All  the  young  people  looked  at  the  adventurous  girl,  who 
was  reeling.  The  fear  that  her  companions  would  come  up  to 
her,  gave  her  courage ;  she  regained  her  strength  and  equili- 
brium, and  turning  to  Laura,  and  while  swaying  herself  upon 
the  chair,  exclaimed  in  a  voice  of  emotion,  "  Bah  !  it  is  at  least 
a  little  more  solid  than  a  throne."  She  then  hurriedly  removed 
the  serge,  got  down,  pushed  the  table  and  chair  far  away  from 
the  partition,  returned  to  her  easel,  and  made  some  further 
seeming  efforts  to  obtain  a  suitable  body  of  light.  But  she 
was  not  thinking  about  her  picture ;  her  real  object  was  to  get 
close  to  the  dark  closet,  by  the  door  of  which  she  fixed  her 
place  as  she  desired.  Then  she  set  herself  to  get  her  palette 
ready,  maintaining  all  the  while  the  strictest  silence. 

hus  placed,  she  soon  heard  much  more  distinctly  the  gentle 
noise  which  on  the  previous  evening  had  aroused  her  curiosity 
and  led  her  youthful  imagination  through  the  vast  field  of 
conjecture.     She  readily  recognized  the  strong,  firm  breathing 


THE   VENDETTA.  87 

of  the  sleeping  man  of  whom  she  had  caught  a  glimpse.  Her 
curiosity  was  more  than  satisfied,  but  she  found  herself  weighted 
with  a  grave  responsibility.  Through  the  chink  she  had 
caught  sight  of  the  imperial  eagle,  and  the  face  of  an  officer  of 
the  guard,  upon  a  dimly  lighted  folding-bed.  All  was  now 
clear  to  her;  Servin  was  hiding  an  outlaw.  And  now  she 
began  to  fear  that  one  of  her  companions  would  come  to  look 
at  her  picture  and  hear  the  respiration  of  the  poor  fellow  or 
some  too  deep-drawn  inspiration,  such  as  that  which  had  reached 
her  ear  during  the  last  lesson.  She  came  to  the  resolution  to 
remain  near  the  door,  trusting  to  her  skill  to  defeat  the  acci- 
dents of  fate. 

"  It  will  be  better  that  I  should  be  here  to  guard  against 
some  sinister  occurrence,  than  leave  the  poor  prisoner  at  the 
mercy  of  some  bit  of  negligence."  So  she  thought ;  and  the 
thought  explains  the  indifference  displayed  by  Ginevra  when 
she  found  her  easel  removed.  She  was  secretly  overjoyed  at 
the  incident;  since  it  had  afforded  her  the  opportunity  of 
satisfying  her  curiosity  in  the  most  natural  manner ;  and  more- 
over she  was  at  that  moment  too  preoccupied  to  seek  for  the 
reason  of  the  removal  of  her  seat. 

Nothing  is  more  annoying  to  young  girls,  and  indeed  to  any 
one,  than  to  see  a  bit  of  spite,  an  insult,  or  a  smart  sting,  fail 
of  its  effect  by  reason  of  the  indifference  manifested  by  its 
object.  It  would  seem  that  our  hatred  of  a  foe  gains  depth  in 
proportion  to  the  height  to  which  he  rises  above  us.  The 
conduct  of  Ginevra  was  an  enigma  to  all  her  companions. 
Her  friends  and  her  enemies  were  equally  surprised,  for  they 
gave  her  credit  for  every  good  quality  except  forgiveness  of 
injuries.  Although  the  events  of  her  studio  life  had  afforded 
few  occasions  for  the  display  of  that  defect,  the  examples  of 
vindictive  feeling  and  of  firmness  which  she  had  displayed,  had 
not  produced  any  the  less  effect  on  the  minds  of  her  compan- 
ions. After  many  conjectures.  Mademoiselle  Roguin  con- 
cluded by  imputing  the  silence  of  the  Italian  girl  to  a  magna- 


88  BAI.ZAC. 

t 

nimity  that  was  beyond  all  praise  :  and  thereupon  her  retinue 

inspired  by  her,  entered  into  a  scheme  for  humiliating  the 
aristocrats  of  the  studio.  They  achieved  their  object  by  means 
of  a  volley  of  sarcasms  which  lowered  the  pride  of  the  cdte 
droit.  The  arrival  of  Madame  Servin  put  an  end  to  this  con- 
test of  vanity. 

Amdlie  Thirion,  with  that  cunning  which  always  accom- 
panies malice,  had  observed,  analyzed,  and  reflected  on,  the 
prodigious  preoccupijtion,  which  prevented  Ginevra  from  over- 
hearing the  bitter  but  polite  dispute  of  which  she  was  the 
object.  Thus  the  retaliation  inflicted  by  Mademoiselle  Roguin 
and  her  companions  had  the  fatal  efl"ect  of  inducing  the  young 
ultras  to  inquire  into  the  reason  of  Ginevra's  silence ;  so  that 
the  beautiful  Italian  became  the  centre  to  which  every  eye 
was  directed,  and  was  closely  watched  both  by  her  friends  and 
by  her  enemies.  It  is  extremely  difficult  to  conceal  even  the 
least  emotion  or  the  lightest  feeling  from  fifteen  young  girls 
full  of  curiosity  and  idleness,  whose  love  of  mischief  and  whose 
intelligence  are  athirst  for  secrets  to  be  discovered,  and 
intrigues  to  be  worked  out  or  defeated,  while  their  skill  in 
putting  a  number  of  different  interpretations  upon  a  particular 
gesture,  glance,  or  word,  infallably  directs  them  to  the  right 
one.  Accordingly  the  secret  of  Ginevra  de  Piombo  was 
speedily  in  great  danger  of  being  found  out.  At  that  moment 
the  presence  of  Madame  Servin  produced  a  break  in  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  drama,  which  was  being  silently  carried  on  in 
the  depths  of  those  young  hearts ;  a  drama  whose  sentiments, 
ideas,  and  progress  were  expressed  by  means  of  phrases 
which  were  almost  allegorical,  by  mischievous  glances,  by  ges- 
tures, even  by  silence,  which  is  sometimes  more  intelligible  than 
language. 

As  soon  as  Madame  Servin  entered  the  studio,  her  eyes 
sought  the  door  near  which  Ginevra  had  taken  up  her  position. 
Under  the  existing  circumstances  that  look  was  not  forgotten. 
If  none  of  the  pupils  paid  any  attention  to  it  at  first,  Made- 


THE  VENDETTA.  89 

moiselle  Thirion  afterwards  recalled  it,  and  interpreted  the 
mistrust,  the  fear,  and  the  mystery  which  almost  glared  in  the 
eyes  of  Madame  Servin. 

"  Mesdemoiselles,"  said  she,  "  Monsieur  Servin  cannot  be 
here  to-day." 

Then  she  complimented  the  young  ladies  all  round,  and 
received  from  each  of  them  a  heap  of  those  feminine  caresses 
which  lie  as  much  in  the  voice  and  in  the  looks  as  in  the 
actions.  Governed  by  an  uneasiness  which  she  vainly  endea- 
vored to  disguise,  she  soon  came  to  where  Ginevra  was  sitting. 

The  Italian  girl  and  the  painter's  wife  exchanged  a  friendly 
nod,  but  did  not  speak,  while  the  one  painted  and  the  other 
looked  on.  The  respiration  of  the  soldier  could  easily  be 
heard,  but  Madame  Servin  seemed  not  to  hear  it,  and  so  great 
was  her  effort  to  dissimulate,  that  Ginevra  was  tempted  to  sus- 
pect her  of  voluntary  deafness.  The  stranger,  however,  turned 
in  his  bed.  The  Italian  looked  fixedly  at  Madame  Servin,  who 
thereupon  said  to  her  without  the  slightest  change  of  counten- 
ance, "Your  copy  is  as  beautiful  as  the  original.  If  I  had  to 
choose  between  them,  I  should  be  puzzled."  "  Monsieur 
Servin  has  not  taken  his  wife  into  his  confidence  in  this 
matter,"  thought  Ginevra,  who  replied  to  the  young  wife's 
observation  with  a  smile  of  incredulity,  and  then  began  to 
warble  one  of  her  native  conzonettas,  in  order  to  drown  any 
noise  which  the  prisoner  might  make. 

It  was  so  unusual  to  hear  the  studious  Italian  sing,  that  all 
the  young  girls  looked  at  her  in  astonishment,  and  the  circum- 
stance was  afterwards  regarded  as  a  proof  of  the  charitable 
suppositions  of  hatred.  Madame  Servin  soon  went  away,  and 
the  sitting  came  to  an  end  without  further  incident.  Ginevra 
allowed  her  companions  to  go  away,  while  she  herself  seemed 
inclined  for  more  work;  but  she  unwittingly  betrayed  her 
anxiety  to  be  alone;  for  as  the  pupils  proceeded  with  their 
preparatians  for  departure,  she  eyed  them  with  looks  of  ill- 
concealed  impatience.     Mademoiselle  Thirion,  who  had  in  a 


90  BALZAC. 

few  short  hours  become  a  cruel  enemy  of  the  girl  who  excelled 
her  in  everything,  was  guided  by  the  instinct  of  hale  to  the 
conclusion,  that  beneath  the  assumed  application  of  her  rival, 
there  lay  a  mystery.  She  had  several  times  been  struck  by  the 
attentive  manner  in  which  Ginevra  had  disposed  herself  to 
listen  for  a  noise  which  no  one  heard.  The  last  expression 
which  she  caught  gleaming  in  the  eyes  of  the  Italian,  was  a 
ray  of  light  to  her.  She  was  the  last  of  all  the  pupils  to  go 
away,  and  went  down  to  Madame  Servin's  apartments,  talked 
with  her  for  a  moment,  then,  pretending  to  have  forgotten  her 
bag,  she  quietly  remounted  the  staircase,  and  saw  Ginevra 
mounted  on  a  hastily  erected  scaffolding,  and  so  absorbed  in 
her  contemplation  of  the  unknown  soldier,  as  not  to  have 
heard  the  light  steps  of  her  companion.  It  is  true  that,  to 
use  an  expression  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's,  Anielie  walked  as  if 
she  had  been  treading  on  eggs.  Having  regained  the  door  of 
the  study,  she  coughed ;  Ginevra  trembled,  turned  her  head, 
saw  her  enemy,  and  blushed.  She  then  hastily  let  down  the 
green  serge,  in  order  to  disguise  her  real  object ;  and  having 
set  her  paint-box  in  order,  left  the  studio.  She  carried  with 
her,  graven  on  her  memory,  the  image  of  a  man's  head  as 
graceful  as  that  of  the  Endymion,  the  chef-d'oeuvre  of  Girodet 
which  she  had  copied  some  days  before. 

"  Outlaw  so  young  a  man  !  Who  can  it  be  ?  For  it  is  not 
Marshal  Ney."  These  two  phrases  are  the  expression,  in  their 
simplest  form,  of  all  the  ideas  which  Ginevra  turned  over  in 
her  mind  during  the  two  following  days.  The  next  day  but 
one,  in  spite  of  the  haste  she  made  to  be  the  first  to  reach  the 
studio,  she  found  there  Mademoiselle  Thirion,  who  had  come 
in  a  carriage.  Ginevra  and  her  enemy  looked  at  each  other  for 
a  long  time,  but  their  faces  were  impenetrable  masks.  Amdlie 
had  seen  the  enchanting  head  of  the  stranger,  but  fortunately, 
and  at  the  same  time,  unfortunately,  the  eagles  and  the  uniform 
were  not  within  the  space  which  the  chink  enabled  her  to 


THE  VENDETTA.  91 

embrace.     She  was  therefore  lost  in  conjecture,  when  Servin 
suddenly  arrived  much  earlier  than  usual. 

"Mademoiselle  Ginevra,"  said  he,  after  having  glanced 
round  the  studio,  "why  have  you  stationed  yourself  there? 
The  light  is  bad,  come  nearer  to  these  young  ladies,  and  lower 
your  curtain  a  little."  Thereupon  he  sat  down  by  Laura,  whose 
labors  deserved  the  most  complaisant  of  his  corrections. 
,  "  Well  now,"  said  he,  "  here  is  a  head  extremely  well  painted. 
You  will  be  another  Ginevra." 

The  master  went  from  easel  to  easel,  scolding,  flattering, 
joking,  and  making  himself,  as  usual,  more  formidable  on 
account  of  his  witticisms  than  his  reprimands.  The  Italian  girl 
had  not  obeyed  the  direction  of  the  professor,  and  stuck  to 
her  post  with  the  firm  determination  not  to  be  driven  from  it. 
She  took  a  scrap  of  paper,  and  began  to  make  a  rough  sepia 
drawing  of  the  head  of  the  poor  recluse.  A  work  which  is 
the  fruit  of  passionate  conception  always  has  a  certain  peculiar 
stamp.  The  faculty  of  interpreting  the  production  ot  nature, 
or  of  the  imagination  in  true  colors,  constitutes  genius ;  pas- 
sion often  supplies  its  place.  Thus  in  the  situation  in  which 
Ginevra  was  placed,  the  intuition  which  she  owed  to  the  vivid 
impression  made  upon  her  memory,  oi  perhaps  necessity,  that 
mother  of  great  things,  endowed  her  with  supernatural  talent. 
The  officer's  head  was  reproduced  upon  the  paper,  under  the 
influence  of  an  internal  tremor  which  Ginevra  ascribed  to  fear, 
though  a  physiologist  would  have  regarded  it  as  the  fever  ot 
inspiration.  She  cast  from  tiroe  to  time  a  furtive  glance  at 
her  companions,  in  order  that  she  might  be  prepared  to  hide 
the  water-color  in  case  of  any  indiscretion  on  their  part ;  but 
in  spite  of  her  sharp  lookout,  there  was  a  moment  in  which  it 
escaped  her  notice  that  her  remorseless  enemy's  eye-glass 
hidden  by  a  portfolio,  was  directed  full  upon  the  mysterious 
sketch.  Mademoselle  Thirion,  who  recognized  the  face  of 
the  outlaw,  brusquely  raised  her  head,  and  Ginevra  concealed 
the  scrap  of  paper. 


92  BALZAC. 

"Why  hare  you  remained  there  in  spite  of  my  advicci 
mademoiselle  ?"  asked  the  painter  gravely. 

The  pupil  hastily  turned  her  easel  in  such  a  direction,  that 
no  one  could  see  her  sketch,  then  showing  it  to  the  painter 
she  said  with  emotion,  "  Don't  you  agree  with  me,  that  this 
light  is  more  favorable  ?    Had  I  not  better  stay  here  ?" 

Servin  turned  pale.  Since  nothing  escapes  the  piercing  eye 
of  hate.  Mademoiselle  Thirion  made  a  third  party,  so  to  speak, 
in  the  emotions  which  agitated  the  master  and  pupiL 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Servin ;  "  but  you  will  soon  know 
more  than  I  do,"  he  added  with  a  forced  laugh.  There  was  a 
pause  during  which  the  professor  looked  at  the  sketch  of  the 
oflficer's  head. 

"  This  is  a  chef-d' osuvre  worthy  of  Salvator  Rosa,"  cried  he 
with  the  energy  of  an  artist.  At  this  exclamation  all  the 
young  girls  rose,  and  Mademoiselle  Thirion  rushed  up  with 
all  the  impetuosity  of  a  tiger  throwing  itself  upon  its  prey. 
At  this  very  moment  the  outlaw,  awakened  by  the  noise, 
moved  in  his  bed ;  whereupon  Ginevra  knocked  down  her 
stool,  uttered  a  few  incoherent  phrases,  and  began  to  laugh ; 
but  she  had  folded  up  the  portrait  and  thrown  it  into  her 
portfolio  before  her  formidable  foe  had  time  to  catch  sight  ot 
it.  The  easel  was  now  surrounded.  Servin  pointed  out  in  a 
loud  voice  the  beauties  of  the  copy  on  which  his  favorite 
pupil  was  engaged,  and  everybody  was  deceived  by  the  strata- 
gem— except  Amdlie.  She,  placing  herself  behind  her  com- 
panions, tried  to  open  the  portfolio  in  which  she  had  seen  the 
sketch  put — Ginevra  seized  the  portfolio,  and  placed  it  in  front 
of  her  without  a  word.  The  two  young  girls  then  scrutinized 
each  other  in  silence. 

"  Come,  ladies,  to  your  seats,"  said  Servin.  "  It  you  want 
to  know  as  much  about  painting  as  Mademoiselle  de  Piombo 
knows,  you  must  not  be  constantly  talking  about  balls  and 
fashions,  and  fiddle-faddling  as  you  do." 


THE  VENDETTA.  93 

When  all  the  young  women  had  got  back  to  their  places, 
Servin  sat  down  beside  Ginevra. 

"  Was  it  not  better  that  I,  rather  than  another  should  have 
discovered  this  secret?"  said  the  Italian  girl,  speaking  in  a 
low  tone. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  painter.  "  You  are  a  patriot ;  but  even 
if  you  were  not,  1  should  still  have  chosen  you  for  my  con- 
fident." 

The  master  and  pupil  understood  each  other,  and  Ginevra 
no  longer  feared  to  ask, — 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  The  intimate  friend  of  Labddoybre,  the  man  who,  next  to 
the  unfortunate  colonel,  has  contributed  most  to  the  junction 
of  the  seventh  regiment  with  the  grenadiers  of  the  Island  of 
Elba  He  was  commander  of  a  squadron  in  the  guard,  and 
has  just  returned  from  Waterloo." 

"  Why  did  you  not  burn  his  uniform,  and  give  him  a  suit  of 
plain  clothes  ?"  asked  Ginevra  sharply. 

"  They  will  bring  me  some  this  evening." 

"  You  ought  to  have  closed  the  studio  for  a  few  days." 

"  He  is  going  away." 

"  He  wants  to  die  then  ?"  said  the  young  girl.  "  Let  him 
stay  with  you  during  the  first  stage  of  the  commotions.  Paris 
is  still  the  only  place  in  France  where  you  can  safely  hide  a 
man.     Is  he  a  friend  of  yours  ?"  she  inquired. 

•  No  ;  he  has  no  title  to  my  protection  other  than  his  mis- 
fortunes. I  will  tell  you  how  he  was  saddled  upon  me.  My 
father-in-law,  who  had  re-entered  the  service  during  this 
campaign,  met  this  poor  young  fellow,  and  rescued  him  from 
the  claws  of  those  who  arrested  Labedoyere.  He  was  mad 
enough  to  want  to  defend  him  ! " 

"Is  it  you  who  call  him  mad  for  that?"  asked  Ginevra, 
staring  at  the  painter,  who  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

*'  My  father-in-law  is  too  closely  watched  to  be  able  to  keep 
any  one  at  his  house ;  so  he  brought  me  this  stranger  by  night. 


94  BALZAO. 

last  week.  I  hoped  to  conceal  him  from  i\  ery  one  by  shutting 
him  up  in  this  corner,  which  is  the  only  spot  in  the  house 
where  he  can  be  in  safety." 

"  If  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you,  employ  me,"  said  Ginevra. 
"  I  know  Mashal  Feltre." 

"  Well,  we  shall  see,"  replied  the  painter. 

This  conversation  was  too  prolonged  to  escape  the  observa- 
tion of  any  of  the  girls.  Servin  left  Ginevra,  and  paid  a  visit 
to  each  easel,  giving  such  lengthy  lessons  that  he  was  still 
upon  the  stairs  when  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  the  pupils' 
departure. 

"  You  are  forgetting  your  bag.  Mademoiselle  Thirion,'' 
cried  the  professor,  running  after  the  young  girl,  who  de- 
scended to  the  trade  of  a  spy,  in  order  to  gratify  her  hate. 

The  inquisitive  pupil,  assumed  an  air  of  surprise  at  her  own 
stupidity,  went  back  to  look  for  her  bag,  but  Servin's  caution 
was  to  her  another  proof  of  the  existence  of  a  mystery,  whose 
importance  was  beyond  a  doubt.  She  had  already  invented 
all  that  could  possibly  be,  and  might  say,  with  the  Abbe  Bertot, 
"  Mon  siege  est  fait."  She  ran  noisily  down  the  stairs  and 
slammed  the  door  which  opened  into  Servin's  apartments,  so 
as  to  create  the  impression  that  she  had  gone  away;  but  she 
stealthily  reascended  the  stairs,  and  ensconced  herself  behind 
the  door  of  the  studio.  When  the  painter  and  Ginevra  thought 
they  were  alone,  he  tapped  in  a  peculiar  manner  at  the  door  of 
the  attic.  The  door  immediately  turned  on  its  rusty  and 
creaking  hinges,  and  the  Italian  girl  beheld  a  tall,  well-made 
young  man,  whose  Imperial  uniform  stirred  her  heart.  The 
officer's  arm  was  in  a  sling,  and  the  pallor  of  his  features  showed 
how  keen  had  been  his  sufferings.  When  he  saw  a  stranger 
he  trembled,  ^melie,  who  could  not  see  anything,  was  afraid 
to  remain  any  longer ;  but  it  was  enough  that  she  had  heard 
the  creaking  of  the  door,  so  she  stole  noiselessly  away. 

"  Fear  nothing,"  said  the  painter  to  the  officer ;  "  this  is  the 


THE  VENDETTA.  96 

daughter  of  the  emperor's  most  faithful  friend,  the  Baron  de 
Piombc." 

The  young  soldier  cast  away  all  doubt  as  to  the  patriotism 
of  Ginevra  so  soon  as  he  had  seen  her. 

"  Are  you  wounded  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Oh,  it  is  nothing,  mademoiselle ;  the  wound  is  closing." 

At  that  moment  the  harsh  and  penetrating  voices  of  the 
newsmen,  proclaiming,  "  This  is  the  sentence  of  death  pro- 
nounced— "  reached  the  studio. 

All  three  of  them  trembled;  the  soldier  was  the  first  to 
catch  a  name  which  blanched  his  face. 

"  Labddoybre  !  "  he  exclaimed,  sinking  on  to  the  stool. 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  Beads  of  sweat  oozed 
from  the  pale  forehead  of  the  young  man.  Seizing  in  one 
hand,  with  a  gesture  of  despair,  the  black  clusters  of  his  hair, 
he  rested  his  elbow  on -the  edge  of  Ginevra's  easel. 

"  After  all,"  he  exclaimed,  drawing  himself  up  briskly, 
"  Labedoybre  and  I  knew  what  we  were  doing.  We  knew  the 
lot  which  awaited  us  after  the  triumph,  and  after  the  failure. 
He  dies  for  the  cause,  and  I  am  in  hiding  .  .  .  ." 

He  rushed  to  the  door  of  the  studio,  but  Ginevra,  more  alert 
than  he,  had  darted  forward,  and  barred  his  path. 

"  Can  you  re-establish  the  emperor  ?  "  said  she.  "  Do  you 
think  that  you  can  raise  the  giant  who  was  unable  to  stand 
upright  himself?" 

"What  would  you  have  me  to  do  with  myself ?"  said  the 
outlaw,  addressing  the  two  friends  whom  chance  had  sent  him. 
"  I  have  not  a  single  relation  in  the  world.  Laddoyere  was 
my  protector  and  my  friend.  I  am  now  alone.  To-morrow, 
perhaps,  I  shall  be  outlawed  or  condemned.  I  never  had  any 
fortune  besides  my  pay;  I  employed  my  last  crown  in  en- 
deavoring to  save  Lab^doybre  from  his  fate  and  carry  him  off. 
Therefore  death  is  a  necessity  for  me ;  and  when  one  is  deter- 
mined to  die,  one  must  sell  one's  head  to  the  executioner  as 
dearly  as  possible.      I  was  thinking  just  now  that  the  life  of 


96  BALZA.C. 

one  honest  man  is  quite  as  valuable  as  the  lives  of  two  traitors, 
atid  that  a  well-planted  stab  with  a  poniard  may  confer 
immortality." 

This  fit  of  despair  frightened  the  painter  and  also  Ginevra, 
who  well  understood  the  young  man's  frame  of  mind. 

The  Italian  girl  admired  the  beautiful  head  and  the  exquisite 
voice,  whose  sweet  tones  lost  but  little  of  their  sweetness  even 
under  the  influence  of  fury ;  and  she  forthwith  proceeded  to 
pour  balm  into  all  the  wounds  of  the  unhappy  youth. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  "  as  for  your  pecuniary  distress,  suffer  me  to 
offer  you  the  gold  which  I  have  saved.  My  father  is  rich,  I 
am  his  only  child,  he  loves  me,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that 
he  will  not  blame  me ;  don't  scruple  to  accept  my  offer ; 
our  wealth  is  the  emperor's  gift ;  we  do  not  possess  one  cen- 
time which  is  not  the  result  of  his  munificence.  Is  it  not  a 
proof  of  gratitude  to  him,  to  render  a  service  to  one  of  his 
faithful  soldiers  ?  Take,  then,  this  sum,  with  as  little  scruple 
as  I  feel  in  tendering  it.  It  is  only  money,"  she  added  in  a 
tone  of  contempt.  "  Now,  as  to  friends,  you  will  be  sure  to 
find  some,"  as  she  said  this  she  proudly  raised  her  head,  and 
her  eyes  gleamed  with  an  unwonted  light.  "  The  head  which 
will  droop  to-morrow  under  the  fire  of  a  dozen  muskets  saves 
yours,"  she  pursued.  "  Wait  until  this  storm  be  past,  and  you 
may  go  and  seek  service  in  some  foreign  army,  if  they  do  not 
forget  you,  or  in  the  French  service,  if  they  do." 

There  is  in  the  consolation  that  comes  from  a  woman  some- 
thing maternal,  foreseeing,  and  complete;  but  when  words  of 
peace  and  hope  are  spoken  with  that  eloquence  which  proceeds 
from  the  heart,  and  especially  when  the  benefactress  is  beauti- 
ful, it  is  difficult  for  a  young  man  to  resist.  The  colonel  drew 
in  love  through  every  sense ;  a  faint  rose-tint  colored  his  white 
cheeks,  his  eyes  lost  something  of  the  melancholy  which 
obscured  them,  and  he  said  in  peculiar  tone  of  voice,  "You 
are  an  angel  of  goodness,  but — Labddoybre  !  Labddoy^re  1 " 

At  that  cry  the  three  looked  at  each  other  in  silence,  and 


THE  VENDETTA.  07 

understoon  one  another.  They  were  no  longer  friends  of  onlv 
twenty  minutes'  standing,  but  of  twenty  years'. 

"  My  good  fellow,"  resumed  Servin,  "  can  you  save  him  ?  " 

"  I  can  avenge  him." 

Ginevre  trembled.  Although  the  stranger  was  handsome,  it 
'jras  not  his  appearance  which  had  worked  upon  the  young  girl ; 
the  gentle  pity  which  woman  find  in  their  hearts  for  those 
sorrows  which  are  not  ignoble,  had  stifled  in  Ginevra  every 
other  affection ;  but  to  hear  the  cry  of  vengeance,  to  find  in 
this  outlaw  an  Italian  heart,  devoted  to  Napoleon,  Corsican 
generosity,  this  was  too  much  for  her.  She  therefore  contem- 
plated the  ofiicer  with  respectful  emotion,  which  made  a  deep 
impression  on  his  heart.  This  was  the  first  time  that  any  man 
had  aroused  in  her  so  lively  a  feeling.  She  took  a  pleasure,  as 
any  other  woman  would  have  done,  in  establishing  a  harmony 
between  the  mind  of  the  stranger  and  the  distinguished  beauty 
of  his  features  and  happily  proportioned  figure,  which  she 
admired  as  an  artist.  Led  by  chance  curiosity  to  pity,  and 
from  pity  to  intense  interest,  she  was  proceeding  from  that 
interest *to  feelings  so  profound,  that  she  deemed  it  dangerous 
to  remain  there  any  longer. 

"Till  to-morrow,"  she  said,  leaving  behind  her  with  the 
officer  one  of  the  sweetest  of  her  smiles,  by  way  of  consolation. 

When  he  saw  that  smile  which  threw,  as  it  were,  a  new  light 
upon  the  face  of  Ginevra,  the  stranger  was,  for  a  moment, 
oblivious  of  everything. 

"  To-morrow," he  repeated  sadly,  "to-morrow,  Labedoy^re — " 

Ginevra  turned  round,  placed  a  finger  on  her  lips,  and 
looked  at  him  as  if  she  would  say, — 

"  Be  calm,  be  prudent." 

Thereupon  the  young  man  cried,  "  O  Dio,  che  non  vorrei 
vivere  do;)o  averla  veduta"  (O  God,  who  would  not  desire  to 
live  after  having  seen  her  ?) 

The  peculiar  tone  in  which  the  words  were  pronounced  made 
Ginevra  tremble. 


98  BALZAC. 

"  Are  you  a  Corsican  ?"  she  enquired,  going  back  to  him, 
while  her  heart  fluttered  with  delight. 

"I  was  born  in  Corsica, "  he  replied,  "  but  was  taken  to 
Genoa  when  I  was  very  young ;  and  as  soon  as  I  was  old 
enough  for  military  service,  I  enlisted." 

The  beauty  of    the  stranger,  the  extraordinary  charm    in- 
spired by  his  devotion  to  the   emperor,  his  wound,  his  mis- 
fortunes, even  his  peril,  all  vanished  from  the  mind  of  Ginevra, 
or  rather  all  were  blended  in  a  single  new  and  exquisite  feeling. 
The  outlaw  was  a  child  of  Corsica;   he  spoke  its  cherished 
tongue !     For  a  moment  the   young  girl   stood   motionless, 
chained  to  the  spot  by  a  magical  sensation ;  she  had  under  her 
very  eyes  a  living  picture,  to  which  chance  and  every  human 
feeling   combined,  contributed   their   lively  colors.      At   the 
invitation  of  Servin  the  soldier  had  sat  down  upon  a  sofa,  and 
the  artist  had  unfastened  the  scarf  which  supported  the  arm  of 
his  guest,  and  was  engaged  in  baring  it  in  order  to  dress  the 
wound.    Ginevra  shuddered  when  she  saw  the  long  deep  wound 
inflicted  byasword  blade  on  the  fore-arm  of  the  youth,  and  uttered 
a  wail.   The  stranger  raised  his  head  to  look  at  her,  and  smiled 
There  was  something  touching,  something  that  went  to  the  heart 
in  the  care  with  which  Servin  removed  the  lint  and  touched 
the  wounded  flesh ;  while  the  face  of  the  patient,  though  pale 
and  worn,  showed  pleasure  rather  than  suffering  as  he  looked  at 
the  young  girl.     An  artist  must  needs  admire  this  opposition  of 
sentiments,  and  the  contrasts  pioduced  by  the  white  linen  and 
naked  arm  with  the  red  and  blue  uniform  of  the  officer.  At  that 
moment  the  studio  was  somewhat  dark,  but  a  parting  sunbeam 
shed  its  light  upon  the  spot  where  the  outlaw  was  sealed,  so 
that  his  fine  pale  face,  black  hair,  and  uniform  were  bathed 
in  light.      This  simple  effect,  the  superstitious  Italian  took  as 
a  lucky  omen.     Under  this  aspect  the  stranger  looked  like 
a  heavenly  messenger  come  to  her  with  her  native  language  on 
his  ii])s,  to  place  her  under  the  charm  of  the   memories  of 
childhood,  while  her  heart  gave  birth  to  a  feeling  as  fresh  and 


THE    VENDETTA.  99 

pure  as  her  early  days  of  innocence.  For  one  brief  moment 
she  paused  to  reflect,  as  if  buried  deep  in  infinite  thought;  then 
blushing  at  having  allowed  her  preoccupation  to  be  seen,  she 
exchanged  one  sweet,  short  glance  with  the  outlaw,  aiid  fled 
with  his  image  still  before  her. 

The  next  day  was  not  a  lesson  day.     Ginevra  came  to  the 
Studio,  and  the  prisoner  was  able  to  enjoy  the  society  of  his 
compatriot.     Servin,  who  had  a  sketch  to  hnish,  allowed  the 
recluse  to  be  in  the  studio,  and  acted  as  Mentor  to  the  two 
young  people,  who  often  talked  to  each  other  in  the  Corsican 
tongue.     The  poor  soldier  narrated  hu  sufferings  during  the 
retreat  from  Moscow,  for  though  then  only  nineteen,  he  had 
been  present  at  the  passage  of  the  Beresina,  he  alone  of  all 
his  regiment ;  for  he  had  lobt  his  comrades,  the  only  persons 
Tvho  would  interest  themselves  in  an  orphan.     He  described  in 
fiery  language  the  grand  disaster  of  Waterloo.     His  voice  was 
music  to  the  Italian  girl.     Brought  up  in  Corsican  fashion,  she 
knew  not  what  it  was  to  lie,  and  abandoned  herself,  with  perfect 
freedom,  to  her  feelings ;  she  avowed  them,  or  rather  allowed 
them  to  be  divined,  without  resorting  to  the  artifices  of  the 
petty  calculating  coquetry  of  Parisian  young  ladies.     During 
this  day  she  frequently  paused  with  her  palette  in  one  hand 
and  her  brush  in  the  other,  not  dipping  her  bru.sh  into  the 
colors,  but  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  oliticer ;  thus  with 
slightly  parted  lips  would  she  listen,  ever  ready  to  give  the  pic- 
ture that  touch  which  she  never  gave.     She  was  not  surprised 
to  see  so  tender  an  expression  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  man, 
for  she  felt  her  own  grow  tender  in  spite  of  her  wish  to  keep 
them  severe  and  calm.     Then  she  went  on  painting  for  hours 
together,  without  raising  her  head,  because  hp  was  there,  close 
by  her,  watching  her  paint.     When  first  he  came  to  sit  beside 
her  and  watch  her  silently,  she  said  to  him  in  a  tone  of  deep 
emotion  and  after  a  long  pause,  "  It  amuses  you,  then,  to  see 
people  painting  ? "    On  this  da}-,  too,  she  learned  that  his 
came  was  Luigi.    Befoie  they  separated,  it  v.  >.?  agreed  between 


100  BALZAC. 

them  that  if  any  important  political  event  should  happen,  Gin- 
evra  should  inform  him  of  it  by  singing  in  a  low  voice  certain 
Italian  songs. 

On  the  next  day  Mademoiselle  Thirion  informed  all  her 
companions,  in  the  strictest  confidence,  that  Ginevra  de  Piombo 
had  for  a  lover  a  young  man  who  came  during  lesson-time 
and  took  up  his  quarters  in  the  dark  closet  in  the  studio. 

"  Do  you,"  she  said  to  Mademoiselle  Roguin,  "  you  who  take 
her  part,  examine  her  closely,  and  you  will  see  how  she  passes 
her  time." 

Ginevra,  therefore,  was  subjected  to  a  diabolical  scrutiny. 
Her  songs  were  listened  to ;  her  looks  closely  watched.  At 
the  moment  when  she  fancied  she  was  seen  by  no  one,  a 
dozen  pairs  of  eyes  were  incessantly  brought  to  bear  upon  her. 

Thus  forewarned,  these  young  girls  interpreted  in  their  true 
sense  the  expressions  which  flitted  across  the  bright  face  of 
the  Italian  girl,  her  warblings,  and  the  attention  which  she 
devoted  to  the  indistinct  sounds  which  traversed  the  partition 
and  were  audible  only  to  her.  At  the  end  of  a  week,  only  one 
of  Servin's  fifteen  pupils  had  resisted  the  temptation  to  examine 
Louis  through  the  chink  in  the  partition.  This  one  was  Laura, 
who  from  an  instinctive  weakness  still  defended  the  beautiful 
Corsican  girl.  Mademoiselle  Roguin  tried  to  induce  Laura  to 
remain  upon  the  staircase  at  the  hour  of  departure,  in  order 
that  she  might  have  proof  of  the  intimacy  between  Ginevra  and 
the  handsome  young  man,  by  taking  them  by  surprise  when 
they  were  together.  But  she  refused  to  stoop  to  play  the  spy 
when  she  could  not  even  plead  curiosity,  and  so  became  the 
object  of  universal  reprobation.  Ere  long  the  daughter  of  the 
officer  of  the  king's  chamber  discovered  that  it  was  not  at  all 
fitting  that  she  should  go  to  the  studio  of  a  painter  whose 
opinions  were  tinged  with  patriotism  or  Bonapartism,  which  at 
that  epoch  were  one  and  the  same  thing.  So  she  returned  to 
Servin's  no  more.  If  Amdlie  forgot  Ginevra,  the  evil  seed 
which  she  had  sown  produced  its  fruit ;  ^or  it  grndually  came 


^         THE  VENDETTA.  101 

to  pass,  that  either  by  chance,  or  from  a  love  of  chattering,  or 
through  prudery,  all  the  other  young  women  informed  their 
mothers  of  the  strange  things  which  were  going  on  at  the 
studio.  One  day  Mathilde  Roguin  absented  herself;  the  next 
lesson-day  some  other  young  lady  was  away,  and  at  last,  some 
three  or  four  of  the  pupils  who  had  lingered  behind  after  the 
others  had  gone,  returned  no  more.  Ginevra-  and  Laura,  her 
little  friend,  were  for  two  or  three  days  the  only  inhabitants  of 
the  deserted  studio.  The  Italian  did  not  notice  the 
ailing  away,  nor  even  inquire  into  the  cause  of  the  absence 
of  her  companions.  Since  she  had  invented  the  means  of 
communicating  with  Louis,  she  lived  in  the  studio  as  in  some 
delightful  retreat,  alone  in  the  midst  of  a  world,  thinking  ot 
nothing  except  the  officer  and  the  dangers  by  which  he  was 
threatened.  This  young  girl,  although  she  was  a  sincere 
admirer  of  those  noble  characters  who  adhere  to  their  political 
faith,  urged  Louis  to  submit  himself  promptly  to  the  royal 
authority,  in  order  that  she  might  keep  him  in  France  and 
Louis  was  unwilling  to  submit,  because  he  wished  to  remain  in 
his  hiding-place.  If  the  passions  are  born  and  flourish  only 
under  the  influence  of  romantic  causes,  never  had  so  many 
circumstances  concurred  to  unite  two  beings  in  a  single  senti- 
ment. The  friendship  of  Ginevra  for  Louis  and  of  Louis  for 
her,  thus  made  more  progress  in  a  month,  than  an  ordinary 
friendship  makes  in  ten  years  of  drawing-room  intercourse.  Is 
not  adversity  the  touchstone  of  character?  Thus  Ginevra  was 
easily  enabled  to  appreciate  Louis  and  to  know  him,  and  they 
soon  felt  a  mutual  esteem,  one  for  the  other.  Ginevra,  who 
was  older  than  Louis,  derived  some  pleasure  from  being  courted 
by  a  young  man  so  great  and  so  much  tried  by  fate,  who  united 
manly  experience  to  all  the  graces  of  adolescence.  Louis,  on 
his  part,  felt  an  inexpressible  delight  in  allowing  himself  to  be 
apparently  protected  by  a  young  woman  of  twenty-five.  Was 
it  not  a  proof  of  love  ?  The  combination  of  gentleness  and 
pride,   of  force  and  weakness,  in  Ginevra's  character,  was 


102  BALZAC 

irresistibly  attractive,  and  Louis  was  <-onscquently  completely 
subjugated  by  her.  In  short,  they  already  loved  each  other  so 
deeply  that  they  had  no  need  either  to  deny  it  or  to  confess  it. 

One  day  towards  evening  Ginevra  heard  the  agreed  signal. 
Louis  knocked  a  pin  against  the  wood  of  the  partition  without 
producing  much  more  noise  than  a  spider  produces  in  attach- 
ing its  web.  That  was  how  he  asked  to  be  let  out  of  his  retreat 
Ginevra  glanced  over  the  studio,  failed  to  see  little  Laura,  and 
therefore  replied  to  the  signal.  But  when  Louis  opened  the 
door  he  saw  the  young  pupil,  and  hastily  retreated.  Gmevra, 
much  surprised,  looked  round,  saw  Laura,  and  going  up  to  her 
easel  said,  "  You  stay  very  late,  my  darling.  That  head,  never- 
theless, seems  to  me  to  be  finished.  All  you  have  to  do  is  just 
to  add  one  little  touch  of  light  on  the  top  of  this  tress  of  hair." 

"  It  would  be  very  good  of  you,"  said  Laura  with  feeling, 
"  if  you  would  correct  my  copy,  so  that  I  might  have  somethmg 
of  yours  to  keep." 

'•  I  am  quite  willing,"  said  Ginevra,  who  was  sure  that  this 
would  be  the  best  way  to  get  rid  of  her.  "  I  thought,"  she 
added,  while  giving  a  light  touch  to  the  picture  here  and  there, 
**  that  you  lived  a  long  way  from  the  studio  ?" 

'*  Oh,  Gmevra,  I  am  going  away,  and  for  good,"  said  the 
young  girl  sadly 

'•You  ire  goiu5  to  leave  Monsieur  Servin?"  asked  the 
Italian  girl,  witu^^ut  seeming  to  be  affected  by  Laura's  words, 
as  bhe  would  have  bccu  a  month  before. 

'You  have  not  observed  then,  Ginevra,  that  for  some  time 
past  there  is  no  one  here  but  you  and  I  ?" 

"  That  IS  tru-,"  replied  Ginevra,  on  whom  the  idea  flashed 
like  a  souvenir.  "  Are  these  young  ladies  ill  then  ?  are  they 
going  to  be  married  ?  or  are  their  fathers  all  on  duty  at  ths 
court?" 

"  They  have  all  left  Monsieur  Servin's,"  replied  Laura. 

"And  wherefore  ?" 

"  Because  of  you,  Ginevra." 


THE  VENDETTA.  103 

"Of  me!"  repeated  the  Corstcan  girl,  rising  with  threaten- 
ing brow,  proud  look,  and  flashing  eyes. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  angry,  my  dear  Ginevra,"  cried  Laura  sadly, 
"  but  my  mother  wishes  me  also  to  leave  the  studio.  All  these 
young  ladies  have  been  saying  that  you  were  carrying  on  a  love 
intrigue,  that  Monsieur  Servin  was  countenancing  your  lover's 
remaining  in  the  dark  closet.  I  never  believed  these  calumnies, 
and  said  nothing  about  them  to  my  mother.  Yesterday  even- 
ing, Madame  Roguin  met  my  mother  at  a  ball,  and  asked  her 
whether  she  continued  to  send  me  here.  When  my  mother 
said  yes,  Madame  Roguin  repeated  the  lies  of  these  young 
ladies.  My  mother  scolded  me  soundly  ;  she  maintained  that 
I  must  have  known  all  that  was  going  on,  that  I  had,  by  keep- 
ing silence,  betrayed  the  confidence  which  should  exist  between 
mother  and  daughter.  Oh,  my  darling  Ginevra,  how  grieved  I 
am  not  to  De  able  to  be  your  companion  still — 1  who  took  you 
for  my  model  1" 

"  Oh,  we  shall  meet  again  in  society ;  young  girls  many," 
said  Ginevra. 

"  When  they  are  rich,"  replied  Laura. 

"  Come  and  see  me  ;  my  father  has  money." 

"  Ginevra,"  resumed  Laura,  who  was  much  affected,  "  Ma- 
dame Roguin  and  my  mother  are  coming  here  to-morrow  to 
reproach  Monsieur  Servin ;  at  least  let  him  know  of  it  before- 
hand." 

If  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  two  feet  from  where  Ginevra  was 
standing,  she  could  not  have  been  more  astonished  than  she 
was  by  this  revelation. 

"What  business  was  it  of  theirs?"  she  said  naively. 

"  Everybody  considered  it  very  wrong.  Mamma  says  that 
t  is  contrary  to  morality.     .     .     ." 

"  And  you,  Laura,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?** 

The  young  girl  looked  at  Laura  and  their  thoughts  blended ; 
Laura,  who  could  no  longer  refrain  from  tears,  threw  her  arms> 


104  BALZAC. 

round  her  friend's  neck  and  kissed  her.    At  that  moment 
Servin  arrived. 

"  Mademoiselle  Genevra,"  said  he  enthusiastically,  "  I  have 
finished  my  picture ;  it  is  now  being  varnished.     But  what  is 
the  matter  with  you?     It  would  seem  that  all  these  young 
ladies  are  taking  a  holiday,  or  are  in  the  country." 
j     Laura  dried  her  tears,  bowed  to  Servin,  and  retired. 

"The  studio  has  been  deserted  for  several  days  past,"  said 
Ginevra,  "  and  the  young  ladies  will  return  no  more." 

"  Bah  1 » 

"  Oh,  it  is  no  laughing  matter,"  said  Genevra.  "  Listen  to 
me,  I  am  the  unwilling  cause  of  your  loss  of  reputation." 

The  artist  began  to  smile  and  interrupted  his  pupil. 

"  My  reputation  !  "  said  he.  "  Why,  in  a  few  days  my 
picture  will  be  exhibited." 

"  The  question  does  not  concern  your  talent,  but  your  mor- 
ality," said  the  I<alian.  "  These  girls  have  circulated  the  story 
of  Louis  being  shut  up  here,  and  have  said  that  you  winked  at 
— our  love." 

"  Well  there  is  some  truth  in  that,  mademoiselle,"  replied  the 
professor.  "The  mothers  of  these  girls  are  impertinent 
prudes,"  he  continued.  "  If  they  had  come  to  me,  all  would 
have  been  explained.  But,  do  you  think  that  I  trouble  my 
head  about  the  matter  ?  Life  is  too  short."  And  the  painter 
snapped  his  fingers  above  his  head.  Louis,  who  had  heard  a 
part  of  this  conversation,  now  joined  them. 

"  You  are  about  to  lose  all  your  pupils,"  he  cried,  "  and  I 
shall  have  been  the  cause  of  your  ruin  ?  " 

The  artist  took  the  hands  of  Louis  and  Ginevra,  and  joined 
them,  "  you  will  marry  each  other,  will  you  not,  my  children  ?  " 
he  asked  with  a  touching  benevolence.  They  both  looked 
down,  and  their  silence  was  their  first  confession  of  love. 
"  Well,"  cried  Servin,  *'  you  will  be  happy,  will  you  not  ?  Is 
there  anything  which  can  weigh  in  the  balance  against  the 
happiness  of  two  creatures  such  as  you  are  ?  " 


THE  VENDETTA.  105 

"  I  am  rich,"  said  Gincvra,  "  and  you  will  allow  me  to 
indemnify  you." 

" Indemnify  ! "  cried  Servin.  "Why,  when  it  is  known  that 
I  have  been  the  victim  of  the  calumnies  of  a  set  of  fools,  and 
that  I  was  harboring  an  outlaw ;  why  all  the  liberals  in  Paris 
will  send  me  their  daughters.  I  shall  then,  perhaps,  be  your 
debtor." 

Louis  grasped  the  hand  of  his  protector  without  being  able 
to  utter  a  single  word ;  but  at  length  he  said  with  much  feeling, 
"  I  shall  be  indebted  to  you,  then,  for  all  my  happiness." 

"  Be  happy ;  I  unite  you,"  said  the  painter,  with  comic  unc- 
tion, as  he  laid  his  hands  upon  the  heads  of  the  two  lovers. 

This  bit  of  fun  on  the  part  of  the  artist  put  an  end  to  their 
serious  feelings.  They  looked  at  each  other  and  began  to 
laugh.  The  Italian  grasped  the  hand  of  Louis  tightly ;  and 
with  a  simplicity  of  action  worthy  of  the  manners  of  her  country. 
"  Ah,  my  dear  children,"  resumed  Servin,  "  you  appear  to 
think  that  everything  is  as  smooth  as  possible.  Well,  you  are 
in  error."     The  lovers  looked  at  each  other  in  astonishment. 

"  Take  heart ;  I  am  the  only  person  embarrassed  by  your 
little  frolic.  Madame  Servin  is  a  little  strait-laced,  and  in 
truth  I  don't  quite  know  how  we  shall  square  matters  with  her." 

"  Good  God,  I  forgot,"  cried  Ginevra.  *'  To-morrow  Madame 
Roguin  and  Laura's  mother  are  coming  here  to — " 

"  I  understand,"  interposed  the  painter. 

"  But  you  can  set  yourself  right,"  resumed  the  young  girl 
with  a  haughty  movement  of  the  head ;  "  Monsieur  Louis," 
said  she  turning  towards  him  and  looking  at  him  knowingly, 
"  must  by  this  time  have  laid  aside  all  antipathy  to  the  king's 
government.  Well,"  continued  she,  catching  her  lover's  smile, 
"  to-morrow  morning  I  will  send  a  petition  to  one  of  the  most 
influential  personages  in  the  war  department,  a  man  who  can 
refuse  nothing  to  the  daughter  of  the  Baron  de  Piombo.  We 
will  obtain  a  tacit  pardon  for  Monsieur  Louis,  the  commandant, 
for  they  won't  recognize  your  colonelcy.     And  you,"  she  added, 


IOC  BALZAC. 

turning,  to  Servin,  "can  comfront  the  mothers  of  my  charitable 
com|)anions  by  telling  ihem  the  truth." 

"  You  are  an  angel,"  criedServin. 

While  this  scene  was  going  on  in  the  studio,  Ginevra's  father 
and  mother  were  growing  uneasy  at  her  prolonged  absence. 

"It  is  six  o'clock,  and  Ginevra  has  not  yet  returned,"  cried 
Bartholomdo. 

"  She  has  never  stayed  out  so  late,"  replied  Piombo's  wife. 

The  two  old  folks  looked  at  each  other  with  no  ordinary 
anxiety  depicted  on  their  faces.  Too  much  excited  to  sit  still, 
Bartholomeo  rose,  and  walked  twice  round  the  room,  showing 
a  good  deal  of  activity  for  a  man  of  seventy-seven.  Thanks  to 
his  robust  constitution,  he  was  not  much  changed  since  the 
day  of  his  arrival  in  Paris,  and  notwithstanding  his  height,  he 
still  bore  himself  erect.  His  large  protuberant  head,  which 
could  be  easily  seen  through  the  thin  white  hair,  gave  a  high 
idea  of  his  character  and  firmness.  His  face,  which  was  marked 
with  deep  furrows,  had  assumed  a  very  well  marked  character 
and  retained  that  pallid  look  which  inspires  veneration.  The 
unnatural  fire  in  his  eyes,  whose  brows  were  not  quite  white, 
and  which  retained  their  terrible  mobility,  showed  that  he  was 
still  under  the  influence  of  impetuous  passions.  The  whole 
head  had  an  aspect  of  severity ;  but  it  was  clear  that  Piombo 
had  the  right  to  be  severe  His  benevolence  and  gentleness 
were  scarcely  known  except  to  his  wife  and  child. 

While  exercising  his  functions,  or  in  the  presence  of  a 
stranger,  he  never  laid  aside  the  majesty  which  age  gave  to 
his  appearance ;  and  his  habit  of  knitting  his  thick  brows,  of 
contracting  the  wrinkles  of  his  face,  and  of  infusing  into  his 
looks  a  Napoleonic  fixity,  rendered  his  address  quite  freezing. 
During  the  course  of  his  political  existence,  he  was  so  generally 
feared  that  he  was  held  to  be  very  unsociable ;  but  it  is  not 
difficult  to  explain  the  origin  of  this  opinion.  The  life,  the 
morals,  and  the  fidelity  of  Piombo  were  a  standing  reproach 
to  the  greater  numbers  of  courtiers.      Notwithstanding  the 


THE  VENDETTA.  107 

delicate  miGsions  w'lich  lind  been  entrusted  to  his  discretion, 
and  would  have  been  highly  profitable  to  any  one  else,  he 
possessed  no  fortune  beyond  an  income  of  30,000  francs  from 
money  invested  in  the  public  funds. 

Any  one  who  considers  the  low  price  of  the  funds  under  the 
empire,  and  Napoleon's  generosity  to  those  of  his  faithful 
servants  who  were  not  too  proud  to  ask,  will  see  at  once  that 
the  Baron  de  Piombo  was  a  man  of  the  strictest  integrity.  As 
for  his  baron's  plumage,  that  he  owed  to  the  necessity  Napoleon 
experienced  of  conferring  on  Piombo  a  title  when  he  was  sent 
to  a  foreign  court.  Bartholomdo  had  always  possessed  a  pro- 
found hatred  for  the  traitors  whom  Napoleon  summoned  around- 
him,  hoping  to  gain  them  over  by  dint  of  victories.  It  is  said 
that  it  was  Piombo  who  took  three  steps  to  the  door  of  the 
emperor's  cabinet  after  advising  him  to  get  rid  of  three  men  in 
France,  on  the  eve  of  the  day  on  which  Napoleon  started  for 
his  admirable  campaign  of  1814.  Since  the  second  return  of  the 
Bourbons,  Bartholomeo  gave  up  wearing  the  insignia  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor.  Never  was  there  a  finer  specimen  of  those 
old  republicans,  incorruptible  adherents  of  the  emperor,  who 
survived  like  animated  ruins  of  the  two  most  energetic  govern- 
ments that  the  world  has  known.  If  the  Baron  de  Piombo 
were  distasteful  to  certain  courtiers,  he  had  such  men  as  Daru, 
Drouot,  and  Carnot  for  his  friends.  As  for  the  other  politicians 
he  troubled  himself  as  little  about  them  since  Waterloo,  as  he 
did  about  the  whiffs  of  smoke  from  his  cigar. 

Bartholomeo  de  Piombo  had  bought  the  old  Hotel  de 
Portendubre,  with  the  very  moderate  sum  which  the  emperor's 
mother  had  given  for  his  Corsican  property.  He  made  no 
alterations  in  it;  for  being  almost  always  housed  at  the  expense 
of  the  government,  he  only  occupied  this  dwelling  since  the 
catastrophe  of  Fontaineblcau.  Like  all  simple-minded  people  of 
high  probity,  the  baron  and  his  wife  made  no  provision  for 
external  display ;  they  retained  the  old  furniture  of  the  hotel. 
The  laige,  lofty,  sombre,  and  naked  rooms  of  this  abode,  the 


108  BALZAC. 

immense  mirrors  in  their  old  gilt  frames  now  nearly  bl;  ck,  anJ 
the  furniture  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  were  in  keeping  with 
the  appearance  of  Piombo  and  his  wife — persons  worthy  of 
the  olden  times.  Under  the  empire  and  during  the  hundred 
days,  while  in  the  exercise  of  largely  remunerated  functions, 
the  old  Corsican  had  kept  a  large  establishment,  from  a  desire 
to  do  honor  to  the  post  he  occupied,  rather  than  from  a  desire 
to  shine.  His  existence  and  that  of  his  wife  were  so  frugal 
and  so  quiet,  that  their  moderate  fortune  supplied  all  their 
wants.  To  them  their  daughter,  Ginevra,  was  worth  all  the 
riches  in  the  world.  So,  when  in  May,  1814,  the  Baron  de 
Piombo  resigned  his  office,  sent  away  his  servants,  and  closed 
his  stable  door,  Ginevra,  who  like  her  parents,  was  simple  and 
unpretending,  did  not  feel  the  least  regret.  Like  all  great 
minds,  she  sought  her  luxury  in  the  strength  of  her  feelings,  as 
she  sought  for  happiness  in  solitude  and  work.  Moreover,  these 
three  persons  loved  each  other  too  well  to  attach  any  value  to 
the  mere  frame-work  of  existence.  Often,  and  especially  since 
Napoleon's  last  most  fearful  fall,  Bartholomdo  and  his  wife 
would  pass  delightful  evenings  in  listening  to  Ginevra  playing 
on  the  piano,  or  hearing  her  sing.  They  found  an  immense 
source  of  pleasure  in  her  company,  in  her  lightest  word  ;  they 
followed  her  with  their  eyes  with  tender  anxiety ;  they  could 
hear  her  footstep  in  the  court,  however  lightly  it  might  fall. 
Sometimes  the  three  would,  like  lovers,  be  silent  for  hours 
together,  understanding  better  than  any  words  could  teach 
them,  the  unspoken  feelings  of  their  hearts.  This  deep  feel- 
ing, which  was  the  very  life  of  the  old  people,  inspired  all 
their  thoughts.  They  had  not  three  existences,  but  one  exist- 
ence, which,  like  the  flame  of  a  fire,  divided  itself  into  three 
tongues.  If  the  recollection  of  Napoleon's  benefits,  if  the 
politics  of  the  hour,  would  sometimes  prevail  over  the  persist- 
ent affection  of  the  old  people,  they  could  talk  on  those  topics 
without  breaking  the  community  of  their  ideas.  For  did  not 
Ginevra  share  their  political  passions  ?    What  could  be  more 


THE  VENDETTA.  109 

natural  than  the  eagerness  with  which  they  took  refuge  in  the 
heart  of  their  only  child.  Up  till  that  period  the  avocations 
of  public  life  had  absorbed  the  energy  of  the  Baron  de 
Piombo ;  but  when  he  had  resigned  his  appointments,  he 
found  it  necessary  to  transfer  his  energy  to  the  last  sentiment 
that  remained  to  him.  Then,  moreover,  there  was  perhaps, 
apart  from  the  ties  which  bind  a  father  and  mother  to  their 
daughter,  a  powerful  reason  for  the  fanaticism  of  their  recipro- 
cal passion  ;  their  love  was  not  divided ;  Ginevra's  whole  heart 
belonged  to  her  father,  as  her  father's  did  to  her.  Hence  the 
only  imperfection  in  this  triple  existence;  Ginevra's  volitions 
were  intense ;  she  was  vindictive  and  impetuous  as  Bartholo- 
meo  had  been  in  youth.  The  Corsican  took  a  pleasure  in 
developing  these  savage  feelings  in  his  daughter's  heart,  just 
as  a  lion  teaches  its  whelps  to  spring  upon  their  prey.  But 
since  this  apprenticeship  to  vengeance  could  not  very  well  go 
on,  except  under  her  father's  roof,  Ginevra  forgave  her  father 
nothing,  and  he  was  obliged  to  give  way  to  her.  Piombo 
regarded  these  childish  quarrels  as  mere  trifles ;  but  none  the 
less  did  they  teach  the  child  the  habit  of  tyrannizing  over  her 
parents.  In  the  midst  of  the  tempests  which  Barlholom^o 
loved  to  arouse,  a  single  affectionate  word,  a  single  look,  would 
calm  their  irritated  souls,  and  they  were  never  so  nearly  kissing, 
as  when  they  were  actually  threatening  each  other.  For  the 
last  five  years,  however,  Ginevra,  who  had  become  wiser  than 
her  father,  persistently  avoided  scenes  of  this  description. 
Her  fidelity,  her  devotion,  the  love  which  reigned  in  all  her 
thoughts,  and  her  admirable  good  sense,  had  conquered  her 
irritations,  but  at  the  same  time  one  great  evil  had  resulted 
from  them ;  Ginevra  lived  with  her  mother  and  father  on  a 
footing  of  equality,  which  is  always  fatal.  In  order  to  com- 
plete our  account  of  the  changes  which  had  affected  these 
three  persons  since  their  arrival  in  Paris,  we  must  add  that 
Piombo  and  his  wife,  who  were  uneducated,  had  allowed 
(iinevra  to  study  according  to  her  own  inclination.     Guided 


no  BALZAC. 

only  by  her  girlish  fancies,  she  had  learned  something  of  every 
subject,  then  quitted  it,  adopting  and  abandoning  each  line  of 
thought  in  turn,  until  painting  had  become  her  dominant 
passion.  Had  her  mother  been  capable  of  directing  her 
studies,  of  giving  her  instruction,  and  bringing  into  harmony 
the  gifts  of  nature,  she  would  have  been  perfect;  her  defects 
arose  from  the  fatal  education  which  the  old  Corsican  had 
taken  pleasure  in  giving  her. 

After  the  old  man's  heavy  footstep  had  for  some  time  made 
the  floor  creak  beneath  him,  he  rang  the  bell  and  a  servant 
appeared. 

"Go  and  meet  Mademoiselle  Ginevra,"  said  the  baron. 

"I  always  regretted  we  had  no  carriage  for  her,"  said  the 
baroness. 

"She  did  not  want  to  have  one,"  said  Piombo,  looking  at 
his  wife,  who,  faithful  to  the  role  of  obedience  which  she  had 
played  for  forty  years,  looked  down. 

The  baroness,  who  was  now  seventy,  was  tall,  withered,  pale 
and  wrinkled,  and  bore  a  close  resemblance  to  those  old  women 
whom  Schnetz  introduces  into  the  Italian  scenes  of  his  pictures 
of  genre.  She  was  so  accustomed  to  hold  her  tongue,  that 
one  might  have  taken  her  for  another  Mrs.  Shandy ;  but  from 
time  to  time  a  word,  a  look,  a  gesture,  announced  that  she  had 
retained  her  youthful  vigor  and  freshness.  Ker  dress — which 
was  perfectly  unstudied — was  often  deficient  in  good  taste. 
Generally  like  some  Valideh  Sultan,  she  remained  passive, 
buried  in  a  large  armchair,  waiting  for  or  watching  her  Ginevra, 
her  pride  and  life.  Her  daughter's  beauty,  dress,  and  grace 
seemed  to  have  become  her  own.  All  was  well  with  her  so 
long  as  Ginevra  was  happy.  Her  hair  had  turned  white,  and  a 
few  scattered  locks  showed  themselves  above  her  brow  and 
wrinkled  forehead,  or  strayed  adown  her  hollow  cheeks, 

"  Ginevra  has  been  rather  late  every  day  for  about  the  kst 
fortnight,"  said  the  baroness. 

"  Jcaa  won't  go  (juigk  enQugh,''  s^d  the  impatient  old  m?ffl| 


THE  VENDETTA.  Ill 

buttoning  up  his  blue  coat,  snatching  up  his  hat,  which  he  fixed 
firmly  on  his  head,  then  taking  his  cane  and  making  off. 

"  Vou  wont  have  far  to  go,"  said  his  wife.  For  in  fact  the 
great  door  had  opened  and  closed,  and  the  old  mother  heard 
Ginevra's  footsteps  in  the  court.  Bartholome'o  suddenly  re- 
appeared, carrying  his  daughter  in  triumph,  while  she  was 
struggling  in  his  arms.  "  Here  she  is,  the  Ginevra,  the  Gine- 
vreitina,  the  Ginevrina,  the  Genevrola,  the  Ginevretta,  the 
Ginevra  bella." 

"  Father,  you  hurt  me." 

Ginevra  was  immediately  set  down  with  a  kind  of  respect. 
She  shook  her  head  gracefully,  in  order  to  allay  her  mother's 
fears,  and  show  her  that  her  cry  was  a  mere  ruse.  Thereupon 
the  mother's  pale  wan  face  regained  its  natural  hue,  and 
assumed  an  air  of  gaiety.  Piombo  rubbed  his  hands  most 
vigorously ;  a  sure  sign  that  he  was  pleased.  He  had  con- 
tracted this  habit  at  the  court  by  seeing  Napoleon,  when  he 
flew  into  a  rage  with  any  of  his  generals  or  ministers  who  had 
served  him  ill,  or  had  been  guilty  of  some  fault.  When  once 
the  muscles  of  his  face  rela«:ed,  the  least  wrinkle  in  it  bespoke 
benevolence. 

At  this  moment  the  two  old  people  presented  an  exact 
analogy  to  drooping  plants  restored  to  life  by  a  little  water 
after  a  long  drought. 

"  To  table,  to  table,"  exclaimed  the  baron,  presenting  his 
large  hand  to  Ginevra,  whom  he  called  Signora  Piombellina, 
another  symptom  of  gaiety,  which  his  daughter  acknowledged 
with  a  smile. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  Piombo,  when  dinner  was  over,  "  do  you 
know  that  your  mother  says  that  during  the  last  month  you 
have  stayed  much  later  than  usual  at  the  studio.  It  would 
seem  that  painting  takes  precedence  of  us." 

"  Oh,  father " 

"  No  doubt  Ginevra  is  preparing  some  surprise  for  us,"  said 
the  mother." 


112  BALZAC. 

"What,  going  to  bring  me  one  of  your  pictures?"  said  the 
Corsican,  clapping  his  hands. 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  busy  at  the  studio,"  she  replied. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Ginevra,  you  look  pale  ?" 
said  her  mother. 

"  No  !"  cried  the  girl  with  a  gesture  of  determination.  "No, 
it  shall  not  be  said  that  Ginevra  Piombo  has  told  a  lie,  even 
once  in  her  life  !" 

When  Piombo  and  his  wife  heard  this  singular  exclamation, 
they  looked  at  their  daughter  with  an  air  of  astonishment. 

"  I  am  in  love  with  a  young  man,"  she  added  in  a  voice  of 
emotion.  Then,  without  venturing  to  look  at  her  parents,  she 
dropped  her  large  eyelids  as  if  to  veil  the  lightning  of  her  eyes. 

"Is  he  a  prince?"  asked  the  father  ironically,  in  a  tone 
which  made  the  mother  and  daughter  tremble. 

" No,  father,"  she  modestly  replied;  "it  is  a  young  man 
without  fortune." 

"  He  must  be  very  handsome  then." 

"  He  is  unfortunate." 

"What  is  he?" 

"  He  was  a  comrade  of  Labddoy^re,  was  outlawed  and  with- 
out a  refuge.     Servin  concealed  him,  and     .     .     ." 

"  Servin  is  an  honest  lad,  and  has  acted  well,"  cried  Piombo. 
"  But  you,  my  daughter,  are  acting  badly  in  loving  another 
man  more  than  your  own  father.     .     .     ." 

"I  cannot  help  loving,"  said  Ginevra  gently. 

"  I  was  hoping,"  resumed  her  father,  "  that  my  Ginevra 
would  be  constant  to  me  until  my  death ;  that  my  care  and 
that  of  her  mother  would  be  the  only  care  she  would  receive ; 
that  our  affection  would  have  encountered  no  rival  affection  in 
her  heart,  and  that    .     .    ." 

"  Did  I  ever  reproach  you  on  account  of  your  fanaticism  for 
Napoleon  ?"  said  Ginevra.  "  Have  you  loved  no  one  but  me? 
Have  you  not  been  away  for  months  together,  as  an  ambassa- 


THE  VENDETTA.  113 

dor?    Have  I  not  borne  your  absence  bravely ?    Life  has  cer- 
tain necessities  which  we  must  learn  to  submit  to." 

"  Ginevra." 

"  No,  you  do  not  love  me  for  my  own  sake,  your  reproaches 
show  an  insupportable  egotism." 

"  You  dare  to  accuse  your  father's  love  !"  cried  Piombo 
with  flaming  eyes.  | 

"  No,  father,  I  will  never  accuse  you/'  said  Ginevra,  with 
more  gentleness  than  her  trembling  mother  looked  for.  "  You 
are  right  in  your  egotism,  just  as  I  am  right  in  my  love. 
Heaven  be  my  witness,  that  never  has  daughter  better  fulfilled 
her  duties  towards  her  parents.  I  have  never  seen  aught  but 
happiness  and  love  where  others  often  have  seen  nothing  but 
duties.  For  fifteen  years  I  have  never  been  from  under  your 
protecting  wing,  and  it  has  been  a  very  sweet  pleasure  to  me  to 
make  your  days  pass  happily.  But  am  I  ungrateful  in  yielding 
to  the  charm  of  loving,  in  desiring  to  have  a  husband  to  pio- 
tect  me  when  you  are  gone  ?" 

"  Ah,  you  are  reckoning  with  your  father,  Ginevra,"  pursued 
the  old  man  in  a  sinister  voice. 

Then  there  ensued  a  frightful  pause,  during  which  no  one 
dared  to  speak.  At  length  Bartholomeo  broke  the  silence  by 
crying  in  a  heartrending  voice, — 

"  Oh,  stay  with  us,  stay  with  your  old  father.  I  could  not 
bear  to  see  you  loving  a  man.  You  won't  have  to  wait  for  your 
liberty  long,  Ginevra." 

"  But  consider,  father,  that  we  shall  not  be  parted,  that 
there  will  be  two  to  love  you  instead  of  one,  and  that  you  will 
know  who  the  man  is,  in  whose  care  you  leave  me,  when  you 
go.  You  will  be  doubly  cherished,  cherished  by  me  and  by 
him ;  by  him  who  is  one  with  me,  and  by  me  who  am  alto 
gether  one  with  him." 

"  Oh,   Ginevra,  Ginevra,"  cried  the  Corsican  wringing  his 
hands ;  "  why  did  you  not  marry  at  the  time  when  Napoleon 
u 


114  BALZAO. 

had  accustomed  me  to  the  idea,  and  introduced  to  you  dukes 
and  counts  ?  " 

"  They  loved  me  according  to  order,"  said  the  girl.  "  Be- 
sides, I  didn't  want  to  leave  you,  and  they  would  have  taken 
me  away  with  them." 

"  You  do  not  want  to  leave  us  alone,"  said  Piombo,  "  but  to 
marry  is  to  leave  us  alone.  I  know  you,  my  daughter,  you  will 
love  us  no  more.  Elisa,"  added  he,  looking  at  his  wife,  who. 
sat  motionless  and  almost  stunned,  "we  have  no  longer  a 
daughter,  she  wants  to  marry !  " 

The  old  man  sat  down  after  having  raised  his  hands  in  the 
air  as  if  to  invoke  the  Almighty ;  then  overwhelmed  with  sorrow 
he  remained  with  his  head  bent  down. 

Ginevra  saw  the  agitation  of  her  father,  and  the  moder- 
ation of  his  anger  broke  her  heart.  She  expected  a  crisis, 
fury ;  she  had  not  armed  her  heart  against  her  father's  gentle- 
ness. 

"  Father,"  said  she  in  a  touching  voice.  "  No,  your  Ginevra 
will  never  forsake  you.  But  love  her  also  a  little  for  herself. 
Oh,  if  you  only  knew  how  he  loves  me  1  ah,  he  would  not 
cause  me  any  pain." 

"  Comparisons  already ! "  cried  Piombo,  in  a  terrible  tone, 
"no,  I  cannot  endure  this  idea,"  he  continued.  *'  If  he  loved 
you  as  you  deserve  to  be  loved,  he  would  kill  me ;  and  if  he 
he  loved  you  not,  I  would  stab  him." 

The  hands  of  Piombo  were  trembling,  his  lips  were 
trembling,  his  whole  body  trembled,  and  his  eyes  darted 
lightnings.  Ginevra  only  could  sustain  his  glance,  for 
then  her  own  eyes  kindled  and  the  daughter  was  worthy  of 
the  father. 

"  Oh,  to  love  you.  Who  is  the  man  who  is  worthy  of  such 
a  life  ?  "  he  resumed.  "  To  love  you  as  a  father  loves,  is  to 
be  already  in  Paradise.  Who,  then,  is  worthy  to  be  your 
husband  ?  " 

"  He  is,"  said  Ginevra,  "  he  of  whom  I  feel  I  am  unworthy." 


THE  VENDETTA.  115 

"  He  ?  "  repeated  Piombo  mechanically.     "  Who  is  he  ?  " 

"He  whom  I  love." 

"  Can  he  know  you  well  enough  yet  to  adore  you  ?  " 

"  But  father,"  said  Ginevra,  beginning  to  feel  impatient, 
"  even  if  he  did  not  love  me,  yet  from  the  moment  I  love 
him—" 

"  You  do  love  him  then,"  cried  Piombo.  Ginevra  gently 
bowed  her  head.  "  You  love  him  then  more  than  you  love 
us?" 

"  The  two  feelings  cannot  be  compared,"  she  replied. 

"  The  one  is  stronger  than  the  other,"  said  Piombo. 

"I  think  so,"  said  Ginevra. 

"  You  shall  not  marry  him,"  cried  the  Corsican  in  a  voice 
which  shook  the  windows  of  the  room. 

"  I  shall  marry  him,"  said  Ginevra  quietly. 

"  My  God  !  my  God  !  "  cried  the  mother ;  "  how  will  this 
quarrel  end  ?    Santa  Virgina  !  interpose  between  them." 

The  baron,  who  was  striding  about  the  room,  sat  down ;  an 
icy  severity  over-shadowed  his  face ;  he  looked  fixedly  at  his 
daughter,  and  then  said  to  her  in  a  voice  that  was  sweet  and 
gentle, — 

"  Well,  Ginevra,  no,  you  will  not  marry  him.  Oh,  do  fiot 
say  that  you  will ;  this  evening,  let  me  believe  the  contrary. 
Do  you  want  to  see  your  father  on  his  knees  and  his  white  hairs 
bowing  down  before  you, — I  will  kneel  down." 

"Ginevra  Piombo  has  not  been  accustomed  to  promise 
and  not  to  keep  her  word,"  she  rephed,  "I  am  your 
daughter." 

"  She  is  right,"  said  the  baroness,  "  we  were  sent  into  the 
world  to  marry." 

"  So  you  encourage  her  in  her  disobedience,"  said  the  baron 
to  his  wife,  who,  struck  by  his  expression,  became  still  as  a 
statue. 

"  To  refuse  to  obey  an  unjust  order  is  not  disobedience," 
said  Ginevra. 


116  BALZAC. 

"  It  cannot  be  unjust,  since  it  emanates  frona  the  mouth  of 
your  father,  my  daughter  !  Why  do  you  judge  me  ?  Is  not 
the  repugnance  which  I  feel  a  counsel  from  on  high?  I  am, 
perhaps,  preserving  you  from  some  misfortune." 

"  The  misfortune  would  be  if  he  did  not  love  me." 

"Always /i///^." 

"Yes,  always;  he  is  my  life,  my  wealth,  my  thought.  Even 
if  I  obeyed  you,  he  would  be  ever  in  my  thoughts.  To  forbid 
me  to  marry  him  is  equivalent  to  my  hating  you." 

"  You  love  us  no  longer." 

"  Oh  ! "  cried  Ginevra  shaking  her  head. 

"  Well  then,  forget  him,  remain  faithful  to  us.  After  we — 
you  understand." 

"  Father,  do  you  wish  to  make  me  long  for  your  death?" 
cried  Ginevra. 

"  I  shall  live  longer  than  you  I  children  who  do  not  honour 
their  father  and  mother  die  soon,"  cried  the  father,  driven  to 
the  last  stage  of  exasperation. 

"The  more  reason  why  I  should  marry  quickly  and  be 
happy,"  said  she. 

Her  coolness,  the  strength  of  her  reasoning,  completed 
Piombo's  trouble.  The  blood  rushed  violsntly  to  his  head ;  his 
face  grew  purple. 

Ginevra  shuddered ;  she  flew,  swift  as  a  bird,  on  to  her 
father's  knees,  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  stroked  his  hair, 
and  quite  overcome  exclaimed, —  j 

"  Oh  yes,  let  me  die  first.  I  could  not  survive  you,  my 
father,  dear  father." 

"Oh  Ginevra,  my  mad  Ginevra!"  replied  Piombo,  all  his 
anger  disappearing  under  this  caress,  as  ice  melts  in  the  rays 
of  the  sun. 

"  It  was  time  for  you  to  finish,"  said  the  baroness  with 
emotion. 

"  Poor  mother  !  " 

"  Ah,  Ginevretta,  my  Ginevra  bella  I "  and  the  father  played 


THE  VENDETTA.  117 

with  his  daughter  as  if  she  were  a  child  of  six  years  old.  He 
took  a  pleasure  in  undoing  the  wavy  tresses  of  her  hair,  in 
dancing  her  upon  his  knee. 

There  was  a  touch  of  madness  in  the  expression  of  his 
affection. 

His  daughter  soon  began  to  scold  while  she  embraced  him, 
and  jokingly  tried  to  get  him  to  consent  that  Louis  should  be 
introduced  to  her  home ;  but  jokingly  also,  the  father  refused. 
Then  Ginevra  sulked,  returned,  and  sulked  again.  At  the  end 
of  the  evening  she  felt  glad  that  she  had  familiarized  her 
father's  heart  both  with  her  love  for  Louis  and  with  the  idea  of 
a  not  distant  marriage.  The  next  day  she  said  no  more  about 
her  love,  went  later  to  the  studio,  and  returned  from  it  early, 
was  more  affectionate  in  her  manner  to  her  father  than  she 
had  ever  been,  and  showed  herself  full  of  gratitude,  as  if  to 
thank  him  for  the  consent  which,  by  his  silence,  he  seemed  to 
give  to  her  marriage.  In  the  evening  she  treated  them  to  a 
good  deal  of  music,  and  often  did  she  exclaim, — "  It  requires 
a  man's  voice  for  this  nocturne." 

She  was  an  Italian  girl ;  that  is  saying  everything.  One  day 
after  an  interval  of  eight  days  her  mother  beckoned  to  her ;  she 
went  up  to  her  mother,  who  said  to  her  in  a  low  whisper,  "  I 
have  persuaded  your  father  to  receive  him." 

"  Oh,  mother,  you  make  me  very  happy  ! " 

That  day  then  Ginevra  had  the  pleasure  of  returning  to  her 
father's  dwelling,  hanging  on  the  arm  of  Louis.  This  was  the 
second  time  that  the  poor  officer  had  come  out  of  his  lurking- 
place.  The  urgent  solicitations  which  Ginevra  addressed  to 
the  Due  de  Feltre,  then  minister  of  war,  had  been  crowned 
with  complete  success.  Louis  had  just  been  restored  to  the 
list  of  officers  unattached.  That  was  a  very  great  step 
towards  a  brighter  future.  Since  he  had  been  informed  by  his 
young  friend  of  all  the  difficulties  which  awaited  him  at  the  hands 
of  the  baron,  the  young  commandant  felt  a  fear,  which  he  did 
not  dare  to  confess,  of  not  pleasing  him.    This  man,  who  had 


118  BALZAC. 

borne  adversity  with  so  much  fortitude,  who  was  so  brave  upon 
the  battle  field,  trembled  at  the  thought  of  entering  the  draw- 
ing-room of  the  Piombos.  Ginevra  could  feel  him  trembling 
and  his  emotion,  whose  basis  was  their  mutual  happiness,  was 
to  her  a  further  proof  of  love. 

"  How  pale  you  are,"  she  said  to  him  when  they  reached  the 
door  of  the  hotel. 

"  Oh,  Ginevra,  if  it  were  only  life  that  was  at  stake  ! " 

Although  Bartholomdo  had  been  informed  by  his  wife  of  the 
official  presentation  of  Ginevra's  lover,  he  did  not  rise  to  meet 
him,  but  remained  in  the  armchair  in  which  he  was  wont  to 
sit.     The  severity  of  his  brow  was  quite  glacial. 

"  Father,"  said  Ginevra,  "  I  bring  you  a  person  whom  you 
will,  no  doubt,  be  pleased  to  see.  This  is  Monsieur  Louis,  a 
soldier  who  stood  within  four  paces  distance  of  the  emperor,  at 
the  battle  of  Mont  Saint-Jean." 

The  Baron  de  Piombo  rose,  looked  furtively  at  Louis, 
and  said  to  him  in  a  sardonic  voice,  "  You  wear  no  decoration, 
sir?" 

"  I  don't  wear  the  riband  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  now ;  " 
Louis  uttered  these  words  timidly,  and  remained  standing  in  a 
posture  of  humility. 

Ginevra,  wounded  by  her  father's  want  of  politeness,  brought 
forward  a  chair.  The  officer's  answer  satisfied  the  old  servant 
of  Napoleon.  Madame  Piombo,  perceiving  that  her  husband's 
eyebrows  were  resuming  their  natural  position,  said,  with  a  view 
to  sustaining  the  conversation, — 

"  The  gentleman's  resemblance  to  Nina  Porta  is  astonish- 
ing. Don't  you  think  that  he  has  quite  the  features  of  a 
Porta  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more  natural,"  replied  the  young  man,  on  whom 
the  flaming  eyes  of  Piombo  were  now  fixed.  "  Nina  was  my 
sister." 

"  Are  you  Luigi  Porta  ?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

"  Yes." 


THE   VENDETTA.  110 

Bartholom^o  de  Piombo  rose,  staggered,  was  forced  to  take 
hold  of  a  chair  to  support  himself,  and  looked  at  his  wife. 
Elisa  Piombo  went  up  to  him ;  then  the  two  old  people  quitted 
the  room  arm  in  arm,  leaving  their  daughter  with  a  sort  of 
horror.  Luigi  Porta  looked  at  Ginevra  in  astonishment;  she 
grew  as  white  as  a  marble  statue,  and  stood  with  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  door  through  which  her  father  and  mother  had  dis- 
appeared. This  silence  and  this  retreat  were  so  solemn  that 
the  feeling  of  fear,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  entered  the 
soldier's  heart.  Ginevra  clasped  her  hands  tightly  together 
and  exclaimed  in  a  voice  so  broken  by  emotion  as  to  be 
scarcely  audible,  except  to  the  ear  of  a  lover,  "  What  misery  in 
a  single  word ! " 

"  In  the  name  of  our  love,  what  have  I  said  ?  "  asked  Luigi 
Porta. 

"  My  father,"  she  replied,  "  has  never  spoken  of  our  deplor- 
able history,  and  I  was  too  young  when  we  left  Corsica,  to 
know  anything  of  the  story." 

"  Are  we  in  vendetta  ?  "  asked  Luigi,  trembling. 

"  Yes ;  on  questioning  my  mother  I  learned  that  the  Portas 
had  killed  my  brothers  and  burnt  our  house.  My  father  then 
massacred  all  your  family.  Howr  did  you  escape,  you  whom, 
as  he  supposed  at  least,  he  bound  to  the  posts  of  a  bed,  before 
setting  fire  to  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Luigi.  "  When  six  years  old  I  was 
taken  to  Genoa,  to  the  house  of  an  old  man  named  Colonna. 
I  did  not  hear  a  single  detail  about  my  family.  I  only  knew 
that  I  was  an  orphan  and  without  fortune.  This  Colonna 
acted  the  part  of  a  father  to  me,  and  I  bore  his  name  until  the 
day  when  I  entered  the  service.  As  I  required  documents  to 
show  who  I  was,  old  Colonna  said,  that  I,  powerless  as  I  was, 
and  scarcely  better  than  a  child,  had  enemies.  He  persuaded 
me  to  take  the  name  of  Luigi  only,  in  order  that  I  might 
.escape  them." 

"  Fly,  fly,  Luigi ! "  cried  Ginevra,  "  but  no,  I  must  go  with 


120  BALZAC. 

you.  So  long  as  you  are  in  my  father's  house  you  have  nothing 
to  fear.  As  soon  as  you  quite  it,  you  must  beware  ;  you  will 
be  exposed  to  danger  after  danger.  My  father  has  two  Cor- 
sicans  in  his  service,  and  if  he  does  not  try  to  take  your  life, 
they  will." 

"And  will  this  hatred  exist  between  you  and  me,  Ginevra?'* 

The  young  girl  smiled  sadly,  and  bowed  her  head.  She 
then  quickly  and  proudly  raised  it,  saying, — 

"Oil,  Luigi,  pure  and  sincere  indeed  must  be  our  feelings 
to  give  me  strength  to  walk  in  the  path  which  I  am  about  to 
enter.  But  the  question  is  a  question  of  life-long  happiness, 
is  it  not?" 

Luigi  made  no  verbal  answer,  but  smiled  and  pressed 
Ginevra's  hand.  The  young  girl  understood  that  it  was  only 
genuine  love  which  could  abstain  at  such  a  moment  from  vul- 
gar protestations.  The  calm  and  conscientious  manner  in 
which  Luigi  expressed  his  feelings,  in  some  sort  announced 
their  force  and  their  durability.  The  destiny  of  the  lovers  was 
then  sealed.  Ginevra  foresaw  that  there  were  fierce  conflicts 
to  be  sustained,  but  the  idea  of  giving  up  Louis,  an  idea  which 
had  perhaps  floated  through  Ginevra's  mind,  completely  van- 
ished. His  and  his  for  ever,  she  suddenly  and  energetically 
drew  him  out  of  the  hotel,  and  did  not  leave  him  until  he  had 
reached  the  house  in  which  she  had  procured  for  him  a 
modest  lodging. 

When  she  got  back  to  her  father's  house,  that  kind  of  serenity 
which  is  born  of  a  strong  determination  had  stolen  over  her. 
There  was  not  in  her  manner  any  cliange  that  betokened  un- 
easiness. There  was  no  boldness,  there  was  even  much  sweet- 
ness of  expression,  in  the  look  which  she  gave  her  father  and 
mother,  whom  she  fou"nd  on  the  point  of  silting  down  to 
dinner.  She  saw  her  mother  had  been  weeping;  the  redness 
of  her  aged  eyelids  shook  Ginevra's  resolution  for  a  moment, 
but  she  concealed  her  emotion.  Piombo  seemed  to  be  under 
the  dominion  of  a  sorrow  too  deep  and  concentrated  to  be 


THE  VENDETTA.  121 

expressed  in  common  language.  The  servants  brought  in 
dinner,  but  no  one  touched  it.  A  loathing  for  food  is  one  of 
the  symptoms  of  these  grand  crises  of  the  heart.  They  all  three 
rose  to  leave  the  table  without  one  word  having  been  exchanged 
between  them.  When  Ginevra  was  seated  between  her  father 
and  mother  in  the  vast,  sombre  and  solemn  drawing-room, 
Piombo  would  have  spoken  but  his  voice  failed  him.  He 
tried  to  walk,  but  found  himself  unable,  so  he  sat  down  and 
rang  the  bell. 

"  Pietro,"  said  he  to  the  servant,  "  Light  a  fire,  I  am  cold." 

Ginevra  trembled  and  looked  at  her  father  with  anxiety. 
The  struggle  that  was  on  the  eve  of  taking  place  must  be 
terrible,  and  her  face  was  quite  upset.  She  knew  the  extent  of 
the  danger  which  threatened  her,  but  she  did  not  tremble; 
while  the  furafive  looks  which  Bartholome'o  cast  upon  his 
daughter  seemed  to  announce  that  he  was  at  that  moment 
afraid  of  that  character  whose  violence  was  his  own 
handiwork.  Between  them  no  middle  course  was  possible. 
Thus  the  certitude  of  the  change  which  might  take  place  in 
the  feelings  of  father  and  daughter  kindled  an  expression  of 
terror  on  the  face  of  the  baroness. 

"  Ginevra,  you  love  the  enemy  of  your  family,"  said  Piombo 
at  length,  without  venturing  to  look  at  his  daughter. 

"  That  is  true,"  said  she. 

"  You  will  have  to  choose  between  him  and  us.  Our  Ven- 
detta is  a  part  ofourselves.  The  person  who  does  not  espouse 
my  revenge,  is  not  a  member- of  my  famil-y." 

"  My  choice  is  made,"  replied  Ginevra  in  a  calm  voice. 

Bartholomeo  was  deceived  by  his  daughter's  tranquillity. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  daugliter,"  cried  the  old  man,  whose  eyelids 
were  wet  with  tears,  the  first — the  only  tears  he  shed  in  the 
course  of  his  life. 

"  1  will  be  his  wife,  "  said  Ginevra  abruptly. 

Bartholomeo  felt  stunned  j  but  recovering  self-possesion  he 
replied, — 


122  BALZAC. 

"  This  marriage  shall  not  take  place  so  long  as  I  am  alive. 
I  will  never  consent  to  it." 

Ginevra  was  silent. 

"  But  do  you  consider"  said  the  baron,  "  that  Luigi  is  the 
son  of  the  man  who  killed  your  brothers  ?  " 

"  He  was  oirly  six  years  old  when  the  crime  was  commited, 
and  must  be  innocent  of  it,"  she  replied. 

"  A  Porta !  "  cried  Bartholomdo. 

"  But "  said  the  girl  sharply,  "  have  I  ever  shared  this  ha- 
tred ?  Did  you  educate  me  in  the  belief  that  a  Porta  was  a 
monster  ?  Could  I  suppose  that  one  of  them  was  left  ?  Is  it 
not  natural  that  your  Vendetta  should  succumb  to  my  feel- 
ings ?  " 

"  A  Porta !  "  said  Piombo.  "  If  his  father  had  formerly 
found  you  in  your  bed,  you  would  not  be  alive  now.  He 
would  have  put  you  to  death  a  hundred  times." 

"  That  may  be  "  she  replied ;  "  but  his  son  has  given  me 
more  than  life.  To  look  upon  Luigi  is  a  happiness,  deprived 
of  which  I  cannot  live.  Through  Luigi  I  have  come  to  know 
the  world  of  feeling.  I  have  perhaps  seen  faces  more  beauti- 
ful even  than  his,  but  none  which  has  had  such  a  charm  for 
me.  I  have  perhaps  heard  voices — but  no,  no,  never  have  I 
heard  voices  more  melodious  :  Luigi  loves  me,  he  shall  be  my 
husband." 

"  Never,"  said  Piombo,  "  I  would  rather  see  you  in  your 
coffin,  Ginevra." 

Tho  old  Corsican  rose  and  began  striding  about  the  apart- 
ment. Then  scanned  by  pauses  which  showed  his  intense 
agitation,  the  following  words  fell  from  his  lips : — 

"  You  think,  perhaps,  that  you  will  bend  my  will — undeceive 
yourself — I  will  not  have  a  Porta  for  my  son-in-law.  That  is 
my  final  determination.  Don't  let  the  subject  be  mentioned 
to  me  again — I  am  Bartholom^o  de  Piombo :  do  you  hear, 
Ginevra  ?  " 


.   THE  VENDETTA.  123 

"  Do  you  attach  ally  mysterious  meaning  to  those  words  ?'' 
asked  Ginevra  coldly. 

"  They  mean  that  I  have  a  dagger,  and  that  I  have  no  fear 
of  human  laws.  We  Corsicans  go  before  God  to  justify  our- 
selves." 

"  Well,"  said  the  girl,  rising,  "  I  am  Ginevra  de  Piombo, 
and  I  declare  that  in  six  months  I  shall  be  the  wife  of  Luigi 
Porta.  You  are  a  tyrant,  father,"  she  added,  after  a  fearful 
pause. 

Bartholom^o  clenched  his  fists  and  struck  the  marble  mantel- 
piece.    "  A.h,  we  are  in  Paris,"  he  murmured. 

Then  he  was  silent,  and  crossing  his  arms  and  drooping  his 
head  upon  his  breast,  he  uttered  not  another  word  during  the 
\vhole  evening.  Ginevra  having  given  vent  to  her  determina- 
tion, assumed  an  air  of  imperturbable  self-possession.  She 
sat  down  to  the  piano,  and  sang,  and  played  some  exquisite 
pieces  with  a  grace  and  feeling  which  showed  perfect  freedom 
of  spirit;  so  gaining  a  triumph  over  her  father,  whose  brow 
showed  no  signs  of  calming.  The  old  man  deeply  felt  this 
tacit  insult,  and  reaped  at  that  moment  one  of  the  bitter  fruits 
of  the  education  which  he  had  given  to  his  daughter.  Respect 
is  a  barrier  which  affords  equal  protection  to  parents  and  to 
children.  It  saves  the  former  from  sorrow,  and  the  latter  from 
remorse. 

On  the  next  day  Ginevra,  when  about  to  leave  the  house,  at 
the  hour  at  which  she  usually  started  for  the  studio,  found 
the  door  of  the  hotel  fastened  against  her.  But,  however,  she 
very  soon  found  a  way  of  informing  Luigi  Porta  of  her  father's 
severity.  A  lady's-maid,  who  could  not  read  writing,  conveyed 
to  the  young  officer  a  letter  from  Ginevra.  During  five  days 
the  two  lovers  carried  on  a  correspondence,  thanks  to  those 
schemes  which  young  people  of  twenty  can  always  invent 
Thus,  father  and  daughter  rarely  spoke  to  each  other.  There 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  either  heart  an  element  of  hatred ;  they 
suffered,  but  they  suffered  proudly,  and  in  silence.    When 


124  BALZAC. 

they  found  how  strong  were  the  bonds'  of  affection  which 
united  them,  they  tried  to  break  them,  but  without  success. 
No  tender  reflection  now  lighted  up  the  stern  features  of 
Bartholomdo  when  he  looked  at  his  daughter.  When  the  girl 
looked  at  her  father,  there  was  a  touch  of  fierceness  in  her 
face,  and  reproach  sat  upon  her  innocent  forehead.  She  in- 
dulged indeed  in  a  train  of  happy  thoughts,  but  at  times 
remorse  would  steal  the  brightness  from  her  eye.  It  was  not 
difficult  to  guess  that  she  could  never  tranquilly  enjoy  a  felicity 
which  would  cause  her  parents  unhappincss.  But  alike  in  the 
case  of  Bartholorado  and  in  that  of  his  daughter,  all  the  irre- 
solution caused  by  the  native  goodness  of  their  dispositions 
was  doomed  to  give  way  before  their  pride,  before  the  rancor 
peculiar  to  Corsicans.  They  both  nursed  their  anger  and  shut 
their  eyes  to  the  future.  Perhaps  also  they  both  flattered 
themselves  that  the  one  would  give  way  to  the  other. 

On  Ginevra's  birthday  her  mother  bethought  her  to  take 
advantage  of  the  memories  associated  with  the  day  to  bring 
about  a  reconciliation  between  the  father  and  daughter,  whose 
grave  disunion  filled  her  with  despair.  They  were  all  three  in 
Bartholomdo's  own  room.  Ginevra  guessed  her  mother's  in- 
tention from  the  hesitation  visible  in  her  features,  and  smiled 
sadly.  Just  at  that  moment  a  servant  announced  the  arrival  of 
two  notaries,  who  were  ushered  in,  accompanied  by  several 
witnesses.  Barlholome'o  looked  fixedly  at  the  two  men,  whose 
cold  and  formal  faces  were  calculated  to  wound  feelings  so 
passionate  as  those  of  the  three  principal  actors  in  the  scene. 
The  old  man  looked  uneasily  at  his  daughter,  v^hose  face  wore 
a  smile  of  triumph,  which  made  him  suspect  that  some  catas- 
trophe was  about  to  take  place.  But  he  assumed,  after  the 
manner  of  the  savage,  a  delusive  passiveness,  and  looked  at 
the  two  notaries  with  calm  curiosity.  At  the  silent  invitation 
of  the  old  man,  the  strangers  sat  down. 

"  I  assume  that  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing  the  Baron 
de  Piombo?"  said  the  elder  of  the  two  notaries. 


•THE  VENDETTA.  125 

Bartholom^o  bowed.  The  notary  slightly  moved  his  head, 
and  looked  at  the  young  lady;  his  expression  being  that  of  a 
sheriff's  officer  arresting  a  debtor.  He  then  pulled  out  his 
snuff-box,  and  taking  from  it  a  pinch  of  snuff  administered  it 
to  his  nose  in  little  doses,  while  he  conned  the  opening 
phrases  of  his  address.  Its  delivery  was  accompanied  by  con- 
tinual pauses,  an  oratorical  device  which  we  shall  imperfectly 
represent  by  a  dash. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I  am  Monsieur  Roguin,  notary  to  this 
young  lady  your  daughter;  and  we  are  here — my  colleague 
and  I — with  a  view  to  carrying  out  the  intent  of  the  law,  and 
— to  put  an  end  to  the  differences  which — it  would  appear — 
have  arisen — between  j  ou  and  the  young  lady,  your  daughter 
— on  the  subject  of — her — marriage  with  Monsieur  Luigi 
Porta." 

It  is  probable  that  this  period,  which  was  most  pedantically 
delivered,  seemed  to  Maitre  Roguin  too  fine  to  be  immediately 
understood ;  so  he  stopped  and  looked  at  Bartholomdo  with 
an  expression  peculiar  to  men  of  business,  an  expression  which 
is  a  mean  between  servility  and  familiarity.  From  their  habit 
of  feigning  an  interest  in  the  persons  whom  they  address,  the 
features  of  notaries  contract  a  grimace,  which  they  put  on  and 
off,  as  th^  do  their  pallium  of  office.  This  mask  of  bene- 
volence, which  is  obviously  purely  mechanical,  so  irritated 
Bartholomeo  that  he  had  to  summon  up  all  his  self  control  to 
resist  the  temptation  of  throwing  Roguin  out  of  the  window. 
An  angry  expression  stole  over  his  furrowed  face,  and  induced 
the  notary  to  say  to  himself,  "  I  am  producing  an  effect." 

"  But,"  resumed  he  in  hurried  accents,  "  but.  Monsieur  le 
Baron,  in  cases  of  this  description,  it  is  our  duty  to  be  essen- 
tially mediatory  at  the  outset, — I  beg  you  will  be  good  enough 
to  listen  to  me. — It  is  evident  that  Mademoiselle  Ginevra 
Piombo — attains  on  this  very  day — the  age  at  which  it  is  suf- 
ficient, merely  to  go  through  the  prescribed  formal  demands, 
before  proceeding  forthwith  to  the  celebration  of  her  marriage 


128  BALZAC. 

— in  spite  of  the  absence  of  lier  parents'  consent :  now — it  is 
customary  among  families — which  enjoy  a  certain  amount  of 
social  consideration — which  belong  to  society,  in  fact — which 
possess  a  certain  dignity — which  deem  it  important,  in  short, 
not  to  let  the  public  into  the  secret  of  their  dissensions — and 
which,  moreover,  do  not  desire  to  injure  themselves  by  stamp- 
ing with  disapprobation,  the  future  of  a  young  couple — (for 
that  is  to  injure  oneself) — it  is  customary,  I  say — among  these 
honorable  families — not  to  permit  such  formal  records  to  sub- 
sist— records  which  remain-  which  are  monuments  of  a  divi- 
sion which — in  the  long-run  comes  to  an  end.  From  the 
moment — sir,  when  a  young  woman  has  recourse  to  these 
formal  demands — she  gives  proof  of  an  intention  too  decided 
for  her  father,  and — her  mother  (he  added,  turning  towards 
the  baroness)  to  hope  to  see  her  follow  their  advice.  Paternal 
opposition  being  therefore  of  no  effect — from  this  fact — in  the 
first  place — and  being  also  invalidated  by  the  law,  it  is  clear 
that  a  prudent  man,  after  having  addressed  a  final  remonstrance 
to  his  child,  accords  her  liberty  to    .     .     .     ." 

Monsieur  Roguin  stopped  short  when  he  perceived  that  he 
might  go  on  speaking  for  two  hours  in  that  strain,  without 
getting  any  answer ;  and  he  experienced,  moreover,  a  peculiar 
sensation  from  the  look  of  the  man  whom  he  was  endeavoring 
to  persuade.  An  extraordinary  revolution  had  taken  place  in 
the  countenance  of  Bartholomdo.  The  contraction  of  all  the 
muscles  of  the  face  gave  him  an  appearance  of  cruelty  alto- 
gether undefinable,  and  he  looked  at  the  notary  with  the  look 
of  a  tiger.  The  baroness  remained  mute  and  passive.  Ginevra 
waited  calm  and  resolute ;  she  knew  that  the  voice  of  the 
notary  was  more  powerful  than  her  own,  and  thereupon  she 
seemed  determined  to  keep  silent.  At  the  moment  when 
Roguin  ceased  to  speak,  the  scene  became  so  terrible  that  the 
unknown  witnesses  trembled ;  never,  perhaps,  had  they  ex- 
perienced a  similar  silence.     The  notaries  looked  at  each  other 


THE  VENDETTA.  127 

as  if  in  search  of  counsel  one  from  the  other,  then  rose  and 
went  to  the  window  together. 

"  Did  you  ever  meet  clients  framed  in  this  fashion?"  asked 
Roguin  of  his  comrade. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  done  with  them,"  replied  the 
younger  notary.  "  If  I  were  in  your  place,  I  would  confine 
myself  to  reading  the  documents.  The  old  man  does  not  seem 
to  me  to  be  an  amusing  character ;  he  is  passionate,  and  you 
will  gain  nothing  by  attempting  to  debate  with  him." 

Monsieur  Roguin  then  read  a  stamped  document  containing 
a  written  statement  which  had  been  prepared  in  advance,  and 
coldly  asked  Bartholomeo  what  his  answer  to  it  was. 

"  There  are  then,  in  France,  laws  which  take  away  a  father's 
authority  ?"  asked  the  Corsican. 

"  Sir,"  said  Roguin  in  his  honied  accents. 

"  Which  tear  a  daughter  away  from  her  father?" 

"  Sir,"  said  the  notary. 

"  Which  rob  an  old  man  of  his  last  consolation?" 

"  Sir,  your  daughter  does  not  belong  to  you,  except  ....'* 

"Which  kill  him?" 

"  Sir,  permit  me." 

There  is  nothing  more  frightful  than  the  self-possession  and 
the  precise  arguments  of  a  notary,  when  intruded  into  the  pas- 
sionate scenes  in  which  he  is  called  upon  to  interpose.  The 
faces  which  Piombo  saw  before  him  seemed  to  him  to  have 
come  straight  from  hell ;  his  cool  and  concentrated  anger 
knew  no  bounds,  from  the  moment  when  the  calm  and  almost 
musical  voice  of  his  little  opponent  uttered  that  fatal  permit. 

He  sprang  forward,  and  seizing  a  long  poinard  suspended 
on  a  nail  above  the  chimney-piece,  rushed  towards  his  daugh- 
ter. The  younger  of  the  two  notaries  and  one  of  the  witnesses 
threw  themselves  between  him  and  Ginevra ;  but  Bartholomeo 
roughly  overthrew  the  two  mediators,  while  his  inflamed  fea- 
tures and  flashing  eyes  seemed  more  terrible  than  the  glittering 
dagger.    When  Ginevra  fpund  herself  face  to  face  with  her 


128  BALZAC. 

father,  she  looked  at  him  fixedly  with  an  air  of  triumph,  slowly 
approached  him,  and  went  upon  her  knees. 

"  No  !  no !  I  cannot,"  said  he,  casting  the  weapon  so  forci- 
bly from  him  that  it  buried  itself  deeply  in  the  floor. 

"  Well  then,  be  merciful,  be  merciful,"  said  the  girl.  "You 
hesitate  to  kill  me,  and  yet  you  refuse  to  let  me  live.  Oh, 
father,  never  did  I  love  you  so  well  as  now.  Give  me  then 
Luigi.  Upon  my  knees  I  ask  your  consent.  A  daughter  may 
humble  herself  before  her  father.     Give  me  Luigi,  or  I  die." 

The  violent  emotion  which  choked  her,  prevented  her  from 
proceeding;  she  lost  her  voice,  her  convulsive  struggles  clearly 
showed  that  she  was  between  life  and  death.  Bartholomdo 
repulsed  his  daughter  harshly. 

"  Away,"  he  cried,  "  Luigi  Porta's  wife  cannot  be  a  Piombo. 
I  have  no  daughter  now.  I  lack  strength  to  curse  you,  but  I 
cast  you  off;  you  have  n  fiaiher  now.  My  Ginevra  Piombo  is 
buried — there,"  he  cried  in  deep  tones,  while  he  pressed  his 
hands  tightly  to  his  heart.  "  Away  with  you,  then,  miserable 
being,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  pause.  "Away,  and  never 
appear  before  me  again."  Then  he  took  Ginevra's  arm,  and 
led  her  quietly  out  of  the  house. 

"  Luigi,"  cried  Ginevra,  as  she  entered  the  humble  lodging 
of  the  officer,  "  my  Luigi,  we  have  no  fortune  but  our  love." 

"  Then  we  are  richer  than  all  the  kings  on  earth,"  said  Luigi. 

"  My  father  and  mother  have  abandoned  me,"  said  she  with 
profound  melancholy. 

"  I  will  love  you  for  them." 

"  We  shall  be  very  happy  then  ?"  cried  she,  with  a  gaiety  that 
had  something  fearful  in  it. 

"  Yes,  and  for  ever,"  replied  he,  straining  her  to  his  heart. 

On  the  morrow  of  the  day  on  which  Ginevra  left  her  father's 
house,  she  went  to  Madame  Servin,  and  begged  that  lady  to 
afford  her  shelter  and  protection,  until  the  interval  required  by 
the  law  before  her  marriage  with  Luigi  could  take  place,  had 
elapsed.     Then  began  her  apprenticeship  to  those  sorrows 


THE  VENDETTA.  129 

which  the  world  scatters  in  the  path  of  those  who  violate  its 
usages.  Madame  Servin,  in  her  grave  annoyance  at  the  injury 
inflicted  on  her  husband  through  Ginevra's  adventure,  received 
the  fugitive  very  coldly,  and  told  her  in  language  of  circum' 
spect  politeness  that  she  must  not  count  upon  her  support. 

Too  proud  to  insist,  but  astonished  at  a  selfishness  that  was 
new  to  her,  the  young  Corsican  girl  took  some  apartments  in  a 
furnished  lodging-house  rear  to  the  house  in  which  Luigi  was 
staying.  The  son  of  the  Portas  passed  every  day  at  the  feet 
of  his  intended  bride ;  his  youthful  love  and  high-toned  lan- 
guage dissipated  the  clouds  which  a  father's  disapproval  had 
piled  upon  the  brow  of  his  banished  daughter.  So  beautiful  a 
picture  of  the  future  did  Luigi  draw,  that  Ginevra  learned 
at  length  to  smile,  though  she  could  not  forget  the  rigor  of  her 
parents. 

One  morning  the  servant  of  the  house  brought  Ginevra 
several  trunks  containing  various  stuffs,  linen,  and  a  heap  of 
things  necessary  to  a  young  woman  beginning  house-keeping. 
She  recognized  in  this  consignment  the  thoughtful  kindness  of 
a  mother;  for  on  turning  over  these  presents  she  found  a 
purse  in  which  the  baroness  had  put  the  sum  belonging  to  her 
daughter,  and  also  her  own  savings.  Accompanying  the  money 
there  was  a  letter  in  which  the  mother  conjured  her  daughter 
to  abandon  the  fatal  scheme  of  marriage  if  there  was  yet  time. 
She  had  been  obliged  (so  ran  the  letter)  to  adopt  most 
unheard-of  precautions  in  order  to  convey  that  slight  assistance 
to  Ginevra.  She  entreated  her  daughter  not  to  accuse  her  of 
harshness,  if  in  future  she  left  her  to  her  fate  ;  she  feared  she 
could  aid  her  no  further,  gave  her  a  mother's  blessing,  and 
expressed  a  hope  that  Ginevra  might  find  happinesss  in  that 
fatal  marriage,  if  she  persisted  in  it,  and  assured  her  that  she 
thought  of  nothing  but  her  dear  daughter.  Here  several  words 
of  the  letter  had  been  eff"aced  by  tears. 

"  O  my  mother  !  "  exclaimed  Ginevra,  quite  softened.  She 
felt  a  desire  to  throw  herself  at  her  mother's  knees,  to  see  hei 
I 


130  BALZAC. 

and  breathe  the  beneficent  atmosphere  of  her  lather's  house. 
She  was  just  rushing  out  when  Luigi  entered,  and  at  sight  of 
him  her  filial  afi"ection  gave  way,  lier  tears  tried,  and  she  did 
not  feel  strong  enough  to  forsake  this  lad,  who  was  vo  unfor- 
tunate and  so  loving.  To  be  the  only  ho])e  of  a  noble  being, 
to  love  him,  and  to  leave  him — such  a  sacrifice  is  an  act  of 
treason  of  which  young  hearts  are  quite  incapable.  Gin- 
evra  had  the  generosity  to  bury  her  sorrow  in  the  depths  of 
her  soul. 

At  length  the  wedding  day  anived ;  Ginevra  found  herself 
alone.  Luigi  had  taken  advantage  of  the  time  she  spent 
in  dressing  herself,  to  go  and  find  the  necessary  witnesses 
to  the  signature  of  the  marriage  contract.  These  witnesses 
were  two  worthy  people.  One  of  them,  a  former  quarter-master 
of  the  hussars,  had,  while  in  the  army,  contracted  buch  obliga- 
tions to  Luigi  as  can  never  be  erased  from  the  mind  of  an 
honest  man.  He  was  now  a  coach-master,  and  possessed 
several  hackney  carriages.  The  second  witness,  a  master 
builder,  was  the  owner  of  the  house  in  which  the  ncwly-mairied 
couple  were  to  reside.  Each  of  the  witnesses  got  a  friend  to 
accompany  him,  and  then  the  four  men  went  with  Luigi  to  fetch 
the  bride.  Being  little  accustomed  to  the  conventionalities  of 
social  life,  and  deeming  the  service,  which  they  were  about  to 
render  Luigi,  a  very  simple  one,  these  worthy  folks  had 
dressed  themselves  decently,  but  not  in  holiday  attire ;  so  that 
they  did  not  present  the  gay  appearance  of  a  wedding-party. 
Ginevra  dressed  herself  very  simply,  that  her  attire  might  be  in 
conformity  with  her  fortune  ;  nevertheless,  there  was  something 
so  noble  and  so  imposing  in  her  beauty,  that  at  sight  of  her 
the  compliments  which  the  witnesses  felt  it  their  bounden  duty 
to  address  to  her,  died  upon  their  lips;  they  saluted  her 
respectfully,  and  she  bowed  in  return;  they  confined  them- 
selves to  looking  at  her  in  silent  admiration  ;  joy  can  have  free 
play  only  among  persons  who  feel  that  they  are  equals. 

Thus,  as  chance  would  have  it,  all  the  surroundings  of  the 


THE  VENDETTA.  131 

betrothed  were  sad  and  sombre ;  there  was  nothing  to  reflect 
their  happiness.  The  church  and  the  mayor's  house  were  not 
far  from  the  hotel. 

The  two  Corsicans,  followed  by  the  four  witnesses  required 
by  law,  determined  to  set  out  on  foot;  so  that  this  grand 
scene  in  the  drama  of  social  life  was  deprived  of  all  pomp  and 
circumstance.  The  wedding  party  found  in  the  court  of  the 
mairie  a  crowd  of  carriages,  showing  that  there  was  a  large 
gathering  of  visitors  within.  They  went  upstairs,  and  reached 
a  very  large  hall,  in  which  the  couples  who  were  to  be  made 
happy  on  that  day  were  very  impatiently  awaiting  the  arrival 
of  the  mayor  of  the  district.  Ginevra  sat  down  near  to  Luigi 
at  the  end  of  a  long  bench,  while  their  witnesses  remained 
standing  for  lack  of  seats.  Two  brides  ostentatiously  arrayed 
in  white,  covered  with  ribands,  lace,  and  pearls,  and  crowned 
with  wreaths  of  orange  flowers,  whose  satin  buds  glistened 
beneath  the  veils,  were  there,  surrounded  by  their  joyous 
relatives,  and  accompanied  by  their  mothers,  whom  they  looked 
at  with  a  glance  of  contentment  mingled  with  fear. 

Every  eye  reflecied  their  happiness,  and  every  face  seemed 
to  shower  blessings  upon  them.  Fathers,  witnesses,  brothers, 
and  sisters  went  and  came  like  a  swarm  of  bees,  rejoicing  in  a 
transient  sunbeam.  Every  one  seemed  to  understand  the  value 
of  that  fugitive  moment  of  existence,  in  which  the  heart  finds 
itself  between  two  sets  of  hopes — the  aspirations  of  the  past, 
a:nd  the  promises  of  the  future.  At  this  sight,  Ginevra  felt  her 
heart  swell  and  pressed  the  arm  of  Luigi,  who  darted  one 
glance  at  her.  A  tear  stole  to  the  eye  of  the  young  Corsican, 
for  then  he  understood  more  fully  than  ever  all  that  his 
Ginevra  was  sacrificing  for  him.  That  precious  tear  drove  from 
the  young  girl's  memory  the  isolation  in  which  she  found  her- 
self. Love  poured  its  precious  rays  upon  the  two  lovers,  who 
under  its  influence  saw  nothing  but  each  other  in  all  that 
tumult ;  there,  in  that  crowd,  they  were,  as  they  would  be  in 


132  BALZAC. 

life,  alone.  Their  witnesses,  indifferent  to  the  ceremony, 
quietly  discussed  their  own  affairs. 

"  Oats  are  very  dear,"  said  the  quarter-master  to  the  mason. 

"  They  are  not  yet  so  dear  as  plaster,  proportionately,"  re- 
plied the  builder,  and  they  took  a  turn  in  the  hall. 

"What  a  lot  of  time  is  wasted  here  !"  said  the  mason,  re- 
placing in  his  pocket  a  huge  silver  watch.  | 

Luigi  and  Ginevra  were  sitting  so  close  together  that  they 
seemed  only  one  and  the  same  person.  Surely  a  poet  would 
have  admired  these  two  heads,  brought  together  by  the  same 
sentiment,  and  flushed  with  the  same  color ;  melancholy  and 
mute  in  the  presence  of  two  noisy  wedding-parties,  of  four 
boisterous  families,  decked  with  sparkling  diamonds  and  with 
flowers,  and  gay  with  transient  gaiety.  All  the  joy  which  these 
bustling  and  gorgeous  groups  displayed  in  their  dress  and 
bearing,  Luigi  and  Ginevra  kept  buried  in  the  depths  of  their 
hearts.  On  the  one  hand  was  the  coarse  tumult  of  pleasure ; 
on  the  other  the  delicate  silence  of  joyful  hearts  :  earth  and 
heaven.  But  the  tremulous  Ginevra  could  not  entirely  lay 
aside  the  weakness  of  the  woman.  With  the  superstition  of  an 
Italian  she  saw  a  presage  in  this  contrast,  and  thus  a  feeling  of 
terror,  as  unconquerable  as  her  love,  lurked  in  the  bottom  of 
her  heart.  All  at  once  an  ofificial,  dressed  in  the  city  livery, 
threw  open  a  folding  door ;  silence  was  called,  and  his  voice 
rang  out  almost  like  a  shriek  as  he  summoned  Monsieur 
Luigi  da  Porta  and  Mademoiselle  Ginevra  de  Piombo.  It 
was  an  embarrassing  moment  for  the  two  lovers.  The  celebrity 
of  the  name  Piombo  attracted  attention ;  the  spectators  looked 
about  them  expecting  to  see  a  sumptuous  wedding-party. 
Ginevra  rose,  took  Luigi's  arm,  and,  followed  by  the  witnesses, 
moved  forward  with  a  firm  step,  while  her  haughty  air  over- 
awed the  crowd.  A  murmur  of  surprise  which  gradually 
swelled,  agei.eral  clatter  of  tongues,  rose  to  remind  Ginevra  that 
the  world  would  hold  her  to  account  for  the  absence  of  her 


THE  VENDETTA.  lo3 

parents.  It  seemed  that  she  was  pursued  by  her  father's 
malediction. 

"Wait  for  the  lespective  families,"  said  the  mayor  to  the 
clerk,  who  was  hastily  reading  the  documents. 

"  The  father  and  mother  protest,"  replied  the  secretary 
phlegmatically. 

"  What,  on  both  sides  ?"  pursued  the  mayor. 

"  The  husband  is  an  orphan." 

"  Where  are  the  witnesses  ?" 

"  Here,"  said  the  secretary,  pointing  to  the  four  men,  who, 
mute  and  motionless  and  with  folded  arms,  resembjed  four 
statues. 

"  But  if  there  is  a  protest  ?"  said  the  mayor. 

"  The  forms  of  respect  have  been  complied  with  according 
to  law,"  replied  the  clerk  rising  to  hand  over  to  the  mayor  the 
documents  annexed  to  the  marriage  contract. 

There  was  something  dishonoring  in  this  bureaucratic  col* 
loquy,  which,  in  a  very  few  words,  summed  up  a  complete 
histor}\  The  mutual  hate  of  the  Portas  and  Piombos,  terrific 
passions  were  thus  inscribed  upon  the  pages  of  a  public 
registrar  as  the  annals  of  a  nation  are  engraved  upon  a  tomb- 
stone in  a  few  lines,  often  indeed  in  a  single  word  : — Robes- 
pierre, Napoleon,  Ginevra  shuddered.  As  the  dove  in  its 
flight  across  the  waters  found  no  rest  but  the  ark  for  the  sole 
of  her  foot,  so  Ginevra  could  find  no  refuge  for  her  eyes  save 
the  eyes  of  Luigi ;  for  all  around  her  was  cold  and  sad.  The 
mayor's  look  was  stern  and  reproachful,  while  his  clerk  examin- 
ed the  two  lovers  with  malevolent  curiosity.  Nothing  could 
less  resemble  a  fete.  Like  every  other  circumstance  of  life 
when  stripped  of  its  accessories,  the  situation  was  simple  in 
itself,  but  vast  and  complicated  to  the  eye  of  thought.  After 
sundry  interrogations  to  which  the  pair  replied,  after  some 
words  had  been  muttered  by  the  mayor,  and  the  signatures 
placed  upon  the  registrar,  Luigi  and  Ginevra  were  united. 
Then  the  young  Corsicans,  whose  union  presented   all  the 


134  BALZAC. 

romance  which  genius  has  consecrated  in  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
passed  between  two  hedges  of  gay  relatives  who  had  no  con- 
nexion with  them,  and  were  almost  angry  at  the  delay  occa- 
sioned by  that  melancholy  marriage.  When  the  young  girl 
found  herself  in  the  court  of  the  mairie,  under  the  open  sky,  a 
sigh  escaped  from  her  bosom. 

'•'  Oh,  will  a  whole  life  of  love  and  tender  care  suffice  to 
repay  the  courage  and  affection  of  my  Ginevra?"  said 
Luigi. 

These  words,  accompanied  by  tears  of  happiness,  banished 
all  remembrance  of  suffering  from  Ginevra's  mind,  for  she  had 
suffered  by  appearing  in  the  face  of  the  world  to  claim  that 
happiness  which  her  family  refused  to  sanction. 

"Why  should  people  interfere  with  you  and  me?"  she 
asked,  with  a  simplicity  of  feeling  which  enchanted  Luigi 

Pleasure  lightened  the  hearts  of  the  husband  and  wife. 
They  saw  neither  earth  nor  sky,  nor  houses,  but  flew  as  with 
wings  towards  the  church.  At  length  they  reached  a  small  and 
obscure  chapel,  and  before  a  simple  altar  an  old  priest  cele- 
brated their  union.  There,  as  at  the  mairie,  they  were  surrounded 
by  two  weddings,  which  persecuted  them  with  their  display.  The 
church,  crammed  with  friends  and  relations,  echoed  with  the 
noise  produced  by  the  carriages,  the  vergers,  the  beadles,  and 
the  priests.  Altars  blazed  in  full  ecclesiastic  pomp,  fresh- 
looking  wreaths  of  orange  flowers  adorned  the  statues  of  the 
Virgin.  Everywhere  were  flowers,  incense,  sparkling  lights, 
and  velvet  cushions  trimmed  with  gold.  God  himself  seemed 
to  be  a  party  to  this  pleasure  of  a  day.  At  that  stage  of  the 
ceremony,  when  that  symbol  of  eternal  union,  that  yoke  of 
white  satin  which  is  so  soft,  so  brilliant,  and  so  light  for  some, 
so  leaden  to  the  greater  number,  should  have  been  held  above 
the  heads  of  Luigi  and  Ginevra,  the  priests  looked  round  in 
vain  for  the  youths  who  generally  perform  the  glad  office.  Two 
of  the  witnesses  supplied  their  place.  The  clergyman  deliv- 
ered a  hurried  address  to  the  young  couple,  about  the  perils  of 


THE  VENDETTA.  135 

life  and  the  duties  which  they  should  some  day  impress  on 
the  minds  of  their  children  ;  and  while  dwelling  on  the  topic 
he  insinuated  a  re])roach  about  the  absence  of  Ginevra's 
parents.  Then,  having  set  the  lovers  in  the  presence  of  God, 
as  the  mayor  had  set  them  -in  the  presence  of  the  law,  he 
finished  the  mass  and  left  them. 

"  God  bless  them,"  said  Vergniaud  to  the  mason  when  they 
reached  the  church  porch.  **  Never  were  two  creatures  better 
fitted  for  one  another.  The  parents  of  this  girl  are  dotards. 
I  know  no  braver  soldier  than  Colonel  Louis.  If  every  one 
had  behaved  as  he  did,  the  other  would  be  still  upon  the 
throne." 

The  soldier's  benediction,  the  only  one  which  they  had 
received  that  day,  shed  balm  upon  Ginevra's  heart. 

They  separated  with  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand,  and  Luigi 
thanked  his  landlord  cordially. 

"  Good-bye,  my  brave  comrade,"  said  Luigi  to  the  quarter- 
master, "  I  thank  you." 

*'  Entirely  at  your  service,  colonel ,  heart,  and  body,  horses 
and  carriages,  all  J  have  is  at  your  service." 

"  How  he  loves  you,"  said  Ginevra. 

Luigi  lost  no  time  in  taking  lu's  bride  to  the  house  which 
they  were  to  inhabit.  They  soon  reached  their  modest  apart- 
ments, and  there,  when  the  door  was  closed  behind  them, 
Luigi  took  his  wife  in  his  arms,  and  exclaimed,  "  My  Ginevra, 
for  now  you  are  mine ;  here  is  the  real  festivity ;  here  all  will 
wear  smiles  for  us." 

Together  they  went  through  the  three  rooms  which  com- 
posed their  home.  The  anteroom  was  dining-room  and 
drawing-room  in  one.  On  the  right  was  a  bed-room,  and  on 
the  left  a  large  study,  which  Luigi  had  arranged  lor  the  use  ot 
his  dear  wife.  It  contained  easels,  colour-boxes,  casts,  models, 
mannikins,  in  short  all  the  implements  of  an  artist. 

"  That  is  where  I  shall  work  then,"  said  Ginevra,  with  an 
expression  of  childlike  simplicity.   She  gazed  for  a  long  time  at 


136  BAT,ZAC. 

the  hangings  and  the  furniture,  turning  from  time  to  time  to 
Luigi  to  thank  him  ;  for  there  was  a  kind  of  magnificence  in 
this  little  retreat.  There  was  a  book  case  containing  Gin- 
evra's  favorite  books,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  room  there  was 
a  piano. 

Ginevra  sat  down  upon  a  sofa,  drew  Luigi  to  her,  and 
squeezing  his  hand,  said  in  a  caressing  tone,  "  You  have  good 
taste." 

"  Your  words  make  me  very  happy,"  said  he. 
"  But  let  us  look  at  everything,"  said  Ginevra,  from  whom 
Luigi  had  concealed  the  ornamental  preparations  he  had  intro- 
duced into  their  retreat. 

Then  they  went  into  the  nuptial  chamber,  fresh  and  white 
like  a  virgin 

"  Don't  let  us  stay  here,"  said  Luigi,  laughing. 
"  Oh,  but  I  must  see  everything  ! "  and  the  imperious  Ginevra 
looked  at  every  article  of  furniture  with  the  inquisitive  attention  of 
an  antiquary  examining  a  medal.  She  felt  the  silks  and  scruti- 
nized everything  with  the  artless  contentment  of  a  young  bride 
spreading  out  the  riches  of  her  trousseau. 

"  We  are  ruining  ourselves  at  starting,"  she  said,  half  gladly, 
half  sorrowfully. 

"  That  is  true ;  all  the  arrears  of  my  pay  are  here,"  replied 
Luigi ;  "  I  sold  them  to  a  good  fellow  named  Gigonnet." 

*'  Why  ?  "  inquired  Ginevra,  in  a  reproachful  tone,  which  be- 
trayed a  secret  satisfaction.  "  Do  you  think  I  would  be  less 
happy  in  an  attic  ?  But  all  this  is  very  pretty  and  it  is  ours," 
she  resumed. 

Luigi  gazed  at  her  so  enthusiastically  that  she  looked  down 
and  said  to  him, — 

"  Let  us  go  and  see  the  rest." 

In  the  attics  above  these  three  rooms  there  was  a  study  for 
Luigi,  a  kitchen,  a  servant's  room.  Genevra  was  quite  satisfied 
with  her  little  domain,  though  the  only  view  it  commanded 
was  the  large  blank  wall  of    an   neighboring  house,  and  the 


TUE   VENDETTA.  137 

court  which  lighted  it  was  sombre.  The  hearts  of  the  two 
lovers  were  so  glad,  hope  made  the  future  so  bright  for  them 
that  they  could  see  none  but  enchanting  images  in  their  myste- 
rious asylum.  They  were  buried  in  that  vast  house,  and  lost  in 
the  wilderness  of  Paris,  like  two  pearls  in  their  bed  of  shell  in 
the  bosom  of  the  deep,  deep  ocean.  To  others  such  a  dwell- 
ing would  have  been  a  prison,  to  them  it  was  a  paradise. 

The  first  days  of  their  union  were  given  up  to  love.  It  was 
more  than  they  could  do  to  set  themselves  to  work  at  once : 
ihey  could  not  resist  the  enchantment  of  their  passion. 

Luigi  would  lie  for  hours  together  at  the  feet  of  his  bride, 
adoring  the  color  of  her  hair,  the  .shape  of  her  forehead,  the 
exquisite  casing  of  the  eyes,  the  purity  and  whiteness  of  the 
arches  beneath  which  they  gently  rolled,  sweetly  expressing  the 
happiness  of  contented  love. 

Ginevra  would  play  with  the  hair  of  her  Luigi,  and  never  tire 
of  contemplating  "  la  beltk  folgorante,"  to  use  her  own  expres- 
sion, of  the  young  man,  and  the  elegance  of  his  features.  She 
was  enchanted  with  the  nobleness  of  his  manners  ;  he  with  the 
.  grace  of  hers.  Like  children,  they  toyed  with  trifles  ;  those 
trifles  always  carried  them  back  to  their  love ;  and  they  only 
abandoned  their  gambols  to  fall  back  into  the  reverie  ot  the 
far  nt'ente.  An  air  sung  by  Ginevra  brought  before  them  again 
the  delightful  gradations  of  their  love.  Then  uniting  their 
steps,  as  they  had  united  their  hearts,  they  wandered  through 
the  fields  and  still  found  their  love  in  all  things — in  the  flowers, 
in  the  sky,  and  in  the  burning  colors  of  the  setting  sun.  They 
read  it  even  in  the  capricious  clouds  which  encountered  in  mid 
air.  One  day  was  never  like  another ;  as  time  flowed  on  their 
love  increased  in  strength  because  it  was  true  love.  They 
had  tested  each  other  in  a  few  days,  and  had  instinctively  re 
cognized  that  their  hearts  belonged  to  that  class  whose  inex- 
haustible wealth  seems  to  give  promise  of  new  joys  in  the  future. 
Theirs  was  love  in  all  its  simplicity,  with  its  interminable  chit- 
chat, its  half-finished  phrases,  its  long  silences,  its  fierce  out- 


138  BALZA.C. 

bursts,  its  oriental  rest.  Luigi  and  Ginevra  had  learned  love 
in  all  its  vast  variety  ;  for  love  is  vast  and  various  like  the  ocean, 
which  viewed  superficially  or  in  haste,  is  accused  of  monotony 
by  vulgar  minds ;  while  certain  privileged  beings  might  spend 
a  whole  lifetime  in  admiring  it,  and  ceaselessly  discover  in  it 
changing  phenomena  to  enchant  them. 

The  day,  however  arrived  when  prudence  intruded,  to  drag 
the  young  couple  from  their  Eden.  They  found  that  they 
must  work  in  order  to  li/e.  Ginevra,  who  possessed  a  peculiar 
talent  for  imitating  old  pictures,  set  to  work  to  produce  copies, 
and  acquired  a  connection  among  the  picture  dealers.  Luigi 
on  his  part  was  active  in  trying  to  obtain  employment ;  but  it 
was  very  difficult  for  a  young  officer,  whose  only  acquirements 
were  a  thorough  knowledge  of  military  manoeuvres,  to  find  any- 
thing to  do  in  Paris. 

At  last,  one  day,  when  weary  of  his  fruitless  exertions,  and  des- 
perate at  heart  at  finding  that  the  burden  of  their  existence 
fell  entirely  upon  Ginevra,  he  bethought  him  to  try  and  turn 
his  penmanship,  which  was  very  good,  to  some  account.  With 
that  perseverance  of  which  his  wife  had  set  him  an  example,  he 
went  to  the  attorneys,  the  notaries,  and  the  advocates  of  Paris 
to  ask  them  for  work.  The  frankness  of  his  bearing,  and  the 
position  in  which  he  was  placed,  told  greatly  in  his  favor,  and 
he  obtained  so  many  commissions,  that  he  was  obliged  to  get 
some  young  men  to  help  him.  Gradually  he  set  up  a  whole- 
sale copying  business,  the  profits  of  which,  together  with  the 
amount  produced  by  Ginevra's  pictures,  set  the  young  couple 
at  their  ease — an  ease  which  made  them  proud,  as  being  the 
result  of  their  own  industry.  That  was  the  brightest  period  of 
their  life. 

Occupation  and  the  joys  of  love  made  the  days  pass  rapidly. 
In  the  evening  after  a  good  day's  work,  they  came  together 
joyfully  in  Ginevra's  sanctum.  Music  indemnified  them  for 
their  toils.  The  features  of  the  young  wife  were  never  clouded 
with  melancholy ;  never  did  she  allow  herself  to  utter  a  com- 


THE  VENDETTA.  139 

plaint.  She  always  managed  to  appear  in  the  presence  of  her 
husband  with  a  smile  upon  her  lips  and  with  beaming  eyes. 
Both  of  them  nurtured  a  dominant  idea  which  would  have 
enabled  them  to  find  pleasure  in  the  rudest  toils ;  Ginevra 
would  tell  herself  that  she  was  working  for  Luigi,  and  Luigi 
would  tell  himself  that  he  was  working  for  Ginevra.  It  would  I 
indeed  occasionally  happen  that  the  young  wife,  during  her 
husband's  absence,  would  think  of  the  perfect  happiness  which 
she  would  have  enjoyed,  if  that  life  of  love  had  been  passed  in 
the  presence  of  her  father  and  mother.  At  such  times  she 
would  fall  into  the  deepest  dejection,  under  the  potent  influ- 
ence of  remorse ;  sombre  pictures  would  pass,  like  shadows, 
before  her  imagination ;  she  would  see  her  old  father  in  his 
solitude,  or  her  mother  weeping  in  the  evening  and  hiding  her 
tears  from  the  inexorable  Piombo ;  those  two  white  and 
serious  heads  would  suddenly  rise  before  her,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  would  never  see  them  more,  save  by  the  fantastic 
light  of  memory.  That  idea  haunted  her  like  a  presentiment. 
She  celebrated  the  anniversary  of  their  marriage  by  giving  her 
hushind  a  portrait,  which  he  had  often  wanted — the  portrait  of 
^is  Ginevra.  Never  had  the  young  artist  composed  anything 
so  remarkable.  Setting  aside  the  perfection  of  the  likeness, 
her  striking  beauty,  the  purity  of  her  feelings,  and  the  happi- 
ness of  love  were  there  almost  magically  depicted.  The 
master-piece  was  inaugurated.  And  then  they  passed  another 
year  in  the  lap  of  affluence.  The  story  of  their  lives  might  be 
written  in  three  words,  "  they  were  happy."  No  event  happened 
to  them  of  sufficient  importance  to  be  noticed. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  winter  of  the  year  1819  the  picture- 
dealers  advised  Ginevra  to  produce  something  else  than  copies, 
since  competition  prevented  them  from  being  sold  to  advan- 
tage. Madame  Porta  then  saw  that  she  had  made  a  mistake 
in  not  practising  the  painting  of  pictures  of  genre,  by  which  she 
might  have  made  a  name.  She  now  took  to  painting  portraits ; 
but  she  had  to  contend  against  a  crowd  of  artists  poorer  even 


140  BALZAC. 

than  herself.  However,  inasmuch  as  Luigi  and  Ginevra  had 
laid  by  some  money,  they  did  not  despair  of  the  future.  At 
the  end  of  the  winter  of  that  same  year  Luigi  worked  inces- 
santly. He  also  had  to  contend  against  competition;  the 
price  paid  for  engrossing  had  fallen  so  much  that  he  could  no 
longer  employ  any  assistants,  and  found  himself  obliged  to 
work  harder  for  the  same  amount  of  money.  His  wife  had 
produced  several  pictures  of  considerable  merit ;  but  the  dealers 
would  hardly  buy  the  paintings  even  of  renowned  artists.  Gin- 
evra offered  them  for  the  merest  trifles,  yet  could  not  sell 
them. 

The  situation  of  the  young  couple  was  somewhat  appalling  ; 
their  hearts,  it  is  true,  were  bathed  in  happiness ;  love  showered 
its  treasures  upon  them ;  but  poverty  raised  its  skeleton  head 
in  the  midst  of  this  harvest  of  pleasure,  and  they  concealed 
their  anxieties  from  one  another. 

When  Ginevra  felt  ready  to  burst  into  tears  at  the  sight  of 
Luigi's  sufferings,  she  heaped  caresses  on  him ;  and  Luigi  also, 
while  black  sorrow  nestled  at  his  heart,  exhibited  to  Ginevra 
the  tenderest  affection.  They  sought  compensation  for  their 
sufferings  in  the  exaltation  of  their  sentiments  and  their  words, 
their  joys,  and  their  amusements  were  tinged  with  a  kind  oi 
phrenzy.  They  dreaded  the  future.  What  feeling  is  there 
which  can  be  compared  in  strength  to  a  passion  which  must 
cease  to-morrow  under  the  cold  hand  of  death  or  want? 
When  they  talked  about  their  penury,  they  felt  impelled  to 
deceive  each  other,  and  were  equally  eager  to  grasp  even  the 
slenderest  hope. 

One  night  Ginevra,  after  feeling  about  in  vain,  missed  Luigi 
from  her  side.  A  faint  light  reflected  upon  the  dark  wall  of 
the  little  court  led  her  to  the  conclusion  that  her  husband  had 
begun  to  work  at  night.  (In  fact,  Luigi  waited  till  his  wife  was 
asleep,  and  then  went  upstairs  to  his  study.)  Four  o'clock 
struck  ;  Ginevra  lay  down  again  and  pretended  to  be  asleep. 
Luigi  returned  sleepy  and  overcome  with  fatigue,  and  Ginevra 


THE  VENDETTA.  141 

gazed  upon  the  beautiful  face  and  saw  that  toil  and  care  had 
already  imprinted  upon  it  some  wrinkles. 

"  It  is  on  my  account  that  he  spends  his  nights  writing,"  she 
said  tearfully.  But  a  thought  occurred  to  her  which  dried  her 
tears.  She  resolved  to  imitate  Luigi.  That  very  day  she  went 
to  a  rich  dealer  in  engravings,  and  owing  to  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction given  to  her  by  Elie  Magus,  one  of  the  dealers  who 
bought  her  pictures,  she  obtained  an  order  for  coloring  engrav- 
ings. In  the  daytime  she  painted,  and  looked  to  the  affairs  of 
the  household  :  then,  when  night  came,  she  colored  engrav- 
ings. So  that  these  two  beings  who  loved  each  other  so  dearly, 
only  entered  the  nuptial  bed  in  order  to  quit  it.  Both  pre- 
tended to  be  asleep,  and  so,  from  sheer  devotion,  deceived 
each  other.  One  night  Luigi,  succumbing  to  the  kind  of  fever 
set  up  by  the  toil  which  was  beginning  to  be  too  much  for  him, 
opened  the  window  of  his  study  to  breathe  the  pure  morning 
air  and  relieve  his  pain  ;  when,  looking  down,  he  perceived  the 
light  thrown  upon  the  wall  by  Ginevra's  lamp.  The 
unhappy  man  guessed  everything,  went  downstairs,  and  tread- 
ing softly,  caught  his  wife  in  the  middle  of  her  studio,  coloring 
engravings. 

"  Oh,  Ginevra,"  he  cried. 

She  started  convulsively  upon  her  seat,  and  blushed. 

"  How  could  I  sleep  while  you  were  exhausting  yourself  with 
fatigue  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Yes,  but  I  only  have  the  right  to  work  like  this." 

"  Can  I  remain  idle,"  replied  the  young  wife,  as  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  "  when  I  know  that  every  morsel  of  bread  I 
eat  costs  us  perhaps  a  drop  of  your  blood  ?  I  should  die  if  I 
did  not  unite  my  efforts  to  yours.  Ought  not  all  things  to  be 
in  common  between  us,  pleasure  as  well  as  pain  ?  " 

"She  is  cold,"  cried  Luigi  in  despair,  "fasten  your  shawl 
more  over  your  breast,  my  Ginevra;  the  night  is  cold  and 
damp." 

They  placed  themselves  befcrs  the  window,  the  yor.ng  wife 


142  BALZAC. 

rested  her  head  upon  the  bosom  of  her  beloved,  who  held  her 
by  the  waist,  and  thus  the  two  looked  up  in  profound  silence 
at  the  sky,  which  was  slowly  brightening  with  the  coming  day. 
Grey  clouds  sped  lightly  by,  one  after  the  other,  and  the  east 
grew  lighter  and  lighter. 

"  Look,"  said  Ginevra,  "  it  is  a  presage ;  we  shall  be  happy." 

**Yes,  in  heaven,"  replied  Luigi,  with  a  bitter  smile. 
"O  Ginevra,  you  who  deserved  all  the  treasures  of  the 
earth—" 

"  I  have  your  heart,"  she  said  joyously. 

"Ah,  I  do  not  complain,"  resumed  Luigi,  straining  her 
tightly  to  his  heart,  and  covering  with  kisses  the  delicate  face 
which  was  beginning  to  lose  the  freshness  of  youth,  but  whose 
expression  was  so  sweet  and  gentle  that  he  could  never  look  at 
it  without  feeling  consoled. 

"  How  silent  it  is,"  said  Ginevra.  "  My  friend,  I  find  a 
great  pleasure  in  sitting  up.  The  majesty  of  the  night  is 
truly  contagious ;  it  awes  and  it  inspires ;  there  is  an  indes- 
cribable potency  in  the  thought  '  everything  slumbers,  and  I  am 
awake.' " 

"  O  my  Ginevra,  not  to-day  for  the  first  time  have  I  discov- 
ered the  delicate  grace  of  your  heart.  But  see,  the  sun  is  rising. 
Come  and  sleep." 

"  I  will,"  she  said,  "  but  not  alone.  I  suffered  much  on 
the  night  when  I  discovered  that  my  Luigi  sat  up  without  me.'* 

The  courage  with  which  these  two  young  people  fought 
against  misfortune  was,  for  a  time,  not  without  its  reward  :  but 
that  event  which  is  generally  considered  the  crowning  felicity 
of  married  life  was  doomed  to  be  fatal  to  them.  Ginevra  had 
a  son,  who,  to  borrow  a  popular  expression,  was  as  "  lovely  as 
the  day."  The  maternal  feeling  doubles  the  strength  of  a 
young  woman.  Luigi  borrowed  money  in  order  to  provide  for 
the  expenses  of  Ginevra's  confinement.  Just  at  first,  there" 
fore,  she  did  not  experience  all  the  uneasiness  of  her  situation^ 
and  the  husband  and  wife  gave  themselves  up  to  the  delights 


THE   VENDETTA.  143 

of  rearing  a  child.  It  was  their  last  pleasure.  At  first  the  two 
Corsicans,  like  two  swimmers  uniting  their  efforts  to  swim 
against  a  stream,  struggled  bravely ;  but  at  times  they  gave 
way  to  an  apathy  resembling  those  fits  of  sleep  which  are  the 
harbingers  of  death.  They  soon  found  themselves  compelled 
to  sell  their  jewels.  Poverty  suddenly  showed  herself,  not 
hideous,  but  simply  clad,  and  almost  easy  to  be  borne.  There 
was  nothing  fearful  in  her  voice ;  she  did  not  bring  in  her  train 
despair,  and  rags,  and  spectres ;  but  she  did  banish  the  recol- 
lection and  destroy  the  habits  of  affluence ;  she  wore  the 
springs  of  pride.  Then  came  want  in  all  its  horrors,  want,  reck- 
less of  its  tatters,  want  that  treads  under  foot  every  human 
feeling. 

Seven  or  eight  months  after  the  birth  of  little  Bartholomdo, 
it  would  have  been  difficult  to  recognize  in  the  mother  who 
was  suckling  that  sickly  child,  the  original  of  the  admirable 
portrait  which  was  now  the  only  ornament  of  the  bare  room. 
Without  fire  during  that  severe  winter,  Ginevra  saw  the  grace- 
ful outlines  of  her  face  slowly  disappearing ;  her  cheeks  grew 
white  as  porcelain,  her  eyes  paled  as  if  the  sources  of  life  were 
drying  up  within  her.  Seeing  her  child  thin  and  discoloured, 
Ginevra  suffered  only  from  its  infant  misery,  while  Luigi  had 
not  even  courage  enough  to  smile  at  his  boy. 

"  I  have  been  all  over  Paris,"  said  he,  in  a  hollow  voice.  "  I 
know  no  one,  and  how  can  I  beg  from  strangers  j*  Vergniaud 
the  grazier,  my  old  Egyptian  comrade,  is  implicated  in  a  con- 
spiracy ;  he  has  been  thrown  into  prison,  and  besides,  he  has 
already  lent  me  all  he  could  spare.  As  for  our  landlord,  he  has 
not  asked  for  any  rent  for  a  year." 

"  But  we  are  not  in  want  of  anything,"  replied  Ginevra  gently, 
with  assumed  calmness. 

"  Every  day  that  comes  round  brings  some  fresh  difficulty," 
pursued  Luigi  with  terror.  Luigi  took  all  Ginevra's  pictures, 
the  portrait,  several  pieces  of  furniture  with  which  the  house- 
hold could  still  dispense,  and  sold  the  whole  lot  for  the  merest 


144!  BALZAC. 

trifle.     The  sum  which  he  obtained  for  it  prolonged  for  a  brief 
period  the  death-struggles  of  the  household. 

In  these  days  of  misfortune,  Ginevra  displayed  the  sublimity 
of  her  character,  and  the  extent  of  her  resignation;  she  sup- 
ported the  attacks  of  sorrow  with  stoicism.  Eer  energetic 
mind  sustained  her  against  every  evil,  she  worked  with  an 
unfailing  hand  by  the  side  of  her  dying  boy,  performed  the 
duties  of  the  household  with  miraculous  activity,  and  was  equal 
to  every  emergency.  She  was  happy,  even  now,  when  she  saw 
upon  Luigi's  lips  a  smile  of  astonishment  at  the  sight  of  the 
neatness  which  pervaded  the  one  room  in  which  they  had 
taken  refuge. 

"  My  fHend,  I  have  kept  a  bit  of  bread  for  you,"  said 
Ginevra  one  night  when  he  came  back  worn  out  with  fatigue. 

"And  you?" 

"  I  have  dined,  dear  Luigi,  I  don't  want  anything." 

And  the  sweet  expression  of  her  face  invited  him  more  than 
her  words  did,  to  accept  the  nourishment  of  which  she  was 
robbing  herself  Luigi  gave  her  one  of  those  despairmg  kisses 
which  in  1793  friends  used  to  give  one  another  as  they  mounted 
the  scaffold  together.  At  such  critical  moments  the  hearts  of 
two  beings  are  entirely  laid  bare  to  each  other.  Accordingly 
the  miserable  Luigi  understanding  at  once  that  his  wife  was 
fasting,  caught  the  excitement  which  was  devouring  her,  shud- 
dered, and,  under  the  pretence  of  having  some  pressing  piece 
of  business  on  hand,  went  out;  for  he  would  rather  have 
taken  the  most  subtle  poison  than  escape  death  by  eating  the 
last  morsel  of  bread  to  be  found  at  home.  He  went  forth 
and  walked  about  Paris  among  the  most  brilliant  crirringcs,  in 
the  midst  of  that  insolent  luxury  which  everywhere  stares  oap 
in  the  face.  He  passed  quickly  by  the  shops  of  the  morcy 
changers  with  their  \n\es  of  glittering  gold ;  and  at  length 
determined  to  sell  himself,  to  offer  himself  as  a  substitute  for 
military  service,  hoping  that  that  sacrifice  would  save  Ginevra, 
and  that  during  his  absence  she  might  be  restored  to  the 


THE  VENDETTA.  145 

good  graces  of  Bartholome'o.  He  therefore  went  to  find  one 
of  those  men  who  carry  on  the  white  slave-trade,  and  experi- 
enced a  certain  kind  of  pleasure  in  recognizinef  in  him  a 
foreign  officer  of  the  imperial  guard. 

"  I  have  eaten  nothing  for  two  days,"  he  said,  in  a  slow  and 
feeble  voice.  "  My  wife  is  dying  of  hunger,  and  does  not  utter 
a  single  complaint ;  she  would  smile  in  dying,  I  believe.  I 
entreat  you,  comrade,"  he  added  with  a  bitter  laugh,  "to 
buy  me  in  advance;  I  am  strong,  I  am  no  longer  in  the  service, 
andl     .     .     .     ." 

The  officer  gave  Luigi  a  sum  on  account  of  that  which  he 
undertook  to  procure  for  him.  The  wretched  man  gave  vent 
to  a  convulsive  laugh  when  he  grasped  a  handful  of  gold.  He 
ran  with  all  his  might  towards  his  house,  panting,  and  at  times^ 
exclaiming,  "  O  my  Ginevra,  Ginevra."  Night  was  falling: 
when  he  reached  home.  He  entered  quite  quietly,  fearing  to 
cause  too  much  excitement  to  his  wife,  whom  he  had  left  in  a 
feeble  state.  The  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  penetrating  the 
window  were  shedding  their  dying  light  upon  the  lace  of 
Ginevra,  who  was  sitting  in  a  chair  asleep,  holding  her  child  to- 
her  bosom. 

"  Awake,  my  soul,"  said  he,  not  noticing  the  posture  of  the 
child,  who  at  that  moment  looked  unnaturally  bright. 

Hearing  that  voice,  the  poor  mother  opened  her  eyes,  en- 
countered Luigi's  look,  and  smiled;  but  Luigi  uttered  a  cry  of 
terror.  He  hardly  recognized  his  half-mad  wife,  but  with  a 
gesture  of  savage  energy  showed  her  the  gold.  Ginevra  began 
to  laugh  mechanically,  and  all  at  once  cried  in  a  fearful  voice, 
"Louis,  the  child  is  cold."  She  looked  at  her  boy  and  fainted; 
the  little  Bartholomeo  was  dead.  Luigi  raised  his  wife  in  his 
arms,  and  without  taking  the  child,  which  she  was  clasping 
with  incomprehensible  strength,  from  her  arms,  laid  her  on  the 
bed ;  then  he  went  out  and  called  for  help. 

"  O  my  God,"  said  he  to  the  landlord,  whom  he  met  upon 
J 


146  BALZAC. 

the  staircase.  "  I  have  gold,  and  my  child  is  famished  to  death. 
My  wife  is  dying — help  us." 

He  returned  in  a  desperate  condition  to  his  wife,  and  left 
the  honest  mason  and  several  of  the  neighbors,  to  collect  all 
that  was  needful  to  succor  a  misery  until  then  unknown  to 
them,  so  carefully  had  the  two  Corsicans,  actuated  by  a  feeling 
of  pride,  concealed  it.  Luigi  had  thrown  his  gold  upon  the 
floor,  and  was  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  on  which  his 
wife  was  lying. 

"  Father,  take  care  of  my  child,  which  bears  your  name," 
cried  Ginevra  in  her  delirium. 

"  O  my  angel,  calm  yourself,"  said  Luigi,  embracing  her. 
**  There  are  happy  days  in  store  for  us." 

That  voice,  and  that  embrace  somewhat  tranquilized  her. 

"  O  my  Louis,"  she  resumed,  looking  at  him  with  close 
attention,  "  listen  well  to  what  I  am  going  to  say.  I  feel  that 
I  am  dying ;  my  death  was  to  be  expected ;  I  suffered  too 
much  ;  and  then  a  happiness  like  mine  must  be  paid  for.  Yes. 
my  Louis,  console  yourself,  I  have  been  so  happy  that  if  I 
were  to  begin  life  again  I  would  accept  our  destiny.  Ah !  I  am 
a  bad  mother,  I  regret  you  more  than  I  regret  my  child.  My 
child !"  she  added  in  deeper  tone ;  her  tears  fell  from  her 
dying  eyes,  and  she  suddenly  pressed  the  corpse  which  she  had 
not  been  able  to  revive. 

"  Give  my  hair  to  my  father  in  remembrance  of  his  Ginevra. 
Tell  him  that  I  never  accused  him."     Her  head  sank  upon  her^ 
husband's  arm. 

"  No,  you  cannot  die,"  cried  Luigi ;  "  the  doctor  is  coming ; 
we  have  bread.  Your  father  will  restore  you  to  his  favor. 
Prosperity  has  dawned  for  us.  Remain  with  us,  angel  of 
beauty." 

But  the  fond  and  loving  heart  was  growing  cold.  Ginevra 
instinctively  turned  her  eyes  towards  him  whom  she  adored, 
although  she  was  now  no  longer  conscious  of  anything.  Con- 
fused images  flitted  before  her  mind,  which  was  just  losing  ali 


THE  VENDETTA.  147 

recollection  of  earth.  She  knew  that  Luigi  was  there,  for  she 
clasped  his  icy  hand,  even  more  and  more  tightly  still;  it 
seemed  as  if  she  were  trying  to  cling  to  a  precipice  over  which 
she  felt  herself  falling. 

"  My  friend,"  she  said  at  last,  "  you  are  cold  :  I  will  warm 
you."     ' 

She  would  have  placed  her  husband's  hand  upon  her  heart, 
but  she  died.  Two  doctors,  a  priest,  and  some  neighbors 
came  in  at  that  moment,  bringing  all  that  was  needed  to  succor 
the  husband  and  wife,  and  assuage  their  despair.  These 
strangers  created  a  good  deal  of  noise  at  first,  but  when  they 
had  entered,  a  fearful  silence  reigned  throughout  the  room. 

While  this  scene  was  taking  place,  Bartholomeo  and  his  wife 
were  seated  in  their  old  fashioned  arm-chairs,  one  on  either 
side  of  the  vast  fireplace,  whose  blazing  coals  warmed  the  im- 
mense drawing-room  of  their  hotel.  The  timepiece  marked 
the  hour  of  midnight  For  a  long  time  past  the  old  couple 
had  grown  wakeful.  At  that  moment  they  were  silent,  like 
two  old  people  fallen  into  second  childhood,  who  see  all,  yet 
notice  nothing.  The  deserted  room,  so  full  of  memories  for 
them,  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  single  lamp  whose  flame  was 
almost  extinct.  But  for  the  flickering  flame  of  the  hearth,  they 
would  have  been  in  complete  darkness.  One  of  their  friends 
had  just  left  them,  and  the  chair  upon  which  he  had  sat  during 
his  visit  stood  between  the  two  Corsicans.  Piombo  had  already 
more  than  once  looked  at  that  chair — and  these  looks,  preg- 
nant with  ideas,  followed  each  other  like  so  many  twinges  of 
remorse ;  for  the  empty  chair  was  Ginevra's.  Elisa  Piombo 
was  watching  the  expressions  which  chased  each  other  across 
the  pale  features  of  her  husband.  Although  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  guess  his  feelings,  from  the  changing  revolutions  in 
his  face,  these  were  by  turns  so  menacing  and  so  melancholy, 
that  she  could  not  read  that  incomprehensible  mind. 

Was  Bartholomeo  giving  way  under  the  potent  memories 
aroused  by  that  chrir  ?    Was  he  shocked  to  see  that,  for  the 


14!8  BALZAC, 

first  time  since  his  daughter's  departure,  it  had  been  used  by  a 
stranger  ?  Had  the  hour  of  his  clemency,  that  hour  so  vainly 
looked  for  until  then,  struck  at  last  ? 

Such  were  the  reflections  which  succeeded  each  other  in  the 
mind  of  Elisa  Piombo.  For  a  moment  her  husband's  face 
assumed  so  terrible  an  aspect,  that  she  trembled  at  having 
employed  so  simple  an  expedient  to  give  rise  to  an  opportunity 
of  speaking  of  Ginevra.  At  that  moment  the  north-east  wind 
drove  the  snow-flakes  so  violently  against  the  shutters,  that  the 
two  old  people  could  hear  the  light  sound.  Ginevra's  mother 
bowed  her  head,  in  order  to  conceal  her  tears  from  her  hus- 
band. All  at  once  a  sigh  issued  from  the  old  man's  breast, 
his  wife  looked  at  him,  and  he  broke  down  ;  she  ventured  for 
the  second  time  during  three  years  to  speak  to  him  of  his 
daughter. 

"  If  Ginevra  should  be  cold,"  she  said  gently.  Piombo 
shuddered.  "She  is  hungry  perhaps,"  continued  the  old 
woman.  The  Corsican  let  fall  a  tear.  "  She  has  a  child  and 
cannot  suckle  it,  her  milk  has  dried  up,"  continued  the  mother 
rapidly,  in  the  accents  of  despair. 

"  Let  her  come!  let  her  come  !"  cried  Piombo.  "Oh,  my 
darling  child  !  you  have  conquered  me." 

The  mother  rose  as  if  to  go  and  seek  her  child.  At  that 
moment  the  door  flew  noisily  open,  and  a  man  whose  face  had 
nothing  human  in  it  stood  suddenly  before  them. 

"  Dead  I  Our  two  families  were  fated  to  e'xterminate  each 
other,  for  that  is  all  that  remains  of  her,"  said  he,  laying 
Ginevra's  long  black  hair  upon  the  table. 

The  two  old  people  shudered  as  if  they  had  felt  a  thunder- 
stroke, and  lost  sight  of  Luigi. 

"  He  spares  us  a  gun-shot,  for  he  is  dead  1"  said  Bartholo- 
m^o  slowly,  looking  on- the  ground. 


THE  PURSE. 

(La  Bourse) 

TO   SOFKA. 

Have  you  not  remarked,  mademoiselle,  that  the  painters  and 
sculptors  of  the  middle  ages,  in  placing  two  faces  in  adoration 
by  the  side  of  a  beautiful  saint,  have  never  failed  to  impress 
upon  them  a  filial  resemblance  to  her.  When  you  see  your 
name  among  those  which  are  dear  to  me,  and  under  the  pro- 
tection of  which  I  place  my  works,  call  to  mind  this  touching 
harmony,  and  you  will  find  in  this  dedication,  not  so  much  an 
act  of  homage,  as  the  expression  of  the  fraternal  affection  which 
your  humble  servant  De  Balzac,  has  sworn  to  you. 

"  There  is,  for  those  minds  which  open  freely,  a  delighttul 
hour  which  succeeds  the  moment  when  the  night  has  not  yet 
fallen,  though  the  day  is  no  more.  Twilight  then  sheds  its 
soft  hues  and  strange  effects  on  every  object,  and  encourages 
a  reverie  that  vaguely  mingles  with  the  play  of  light  and  shade. 
Tl  e  silence  which  almost  almost  always  reigns  at  this  instant 
renders  it  more  particularly  dear  to  artists,  who  meditate,  place 
themselves  at  some  distance  from  the  picture  at  which  they  can 
no  longer  labor,  and  criticize  it ;  saturating  themselves  with  its 
subject,  whose  hidden  meaning  then  stands  revealed  to  the 
inner  eye  of  genius.  He  who  has  not  dwelt  in  silent  thought 
beside  a  friend  during  this  hour  of  poetic  dreams,  will  find  it 
hard  to  understand  its  unspeakable  delights.  Under  cover  of 
clear-obscure,  the  material  artifices  employed  by  the  artist  to 
produce  the  appearance  of  reality  entirely  disappear.  If  the 
work  in  hand  be  a  picture,  the  persons  depicted  in  it  seem  to 
speak  and  walk :  the  shadow  becomes  shadow  and  the  daylight 
is  daylight,  the  flesh  lives,  the  eyes  move,  the  blood  courses 


150  BALZAC. 

through  the  veins,  and  the  stuffs  shine.  The  imagination  aids 
the  naturalness  of  each  detail,  and  suffers  only  the  beauties  of 
the  work  to  be  seen.  At  this  hour  illusion  reigns  despotically; 
perhaps  it  rises  when  the  sun  sets.  (Is  not  illusion  an  intel- 
lectual night,  which  we  people  with  dreams  ?)  At  this  hour 
illusion  unfolds  its  wings,  carries  the  mind  away  to  an  ideal 
world — a  world  fertile  in  voluptuous  fancies,  and  in  which  the 
artist  forgets  the  world  of  reality, — yesterday,  to-morrow,  the 
future,  everything,  even  his  privations,  good  as  well  as  evil. 

At  this  magic  hour,  a  young  painter  of  great  promise,  who 
loved  art  for  its  own  sake,  was  mounted  on  the  double  ladder 
which  he  used  in  painting  a  large  and  lofty  picture,  which  he 
had  almost  finished.     There,  as  he  blamed  and  praised  his 
own  work  with  the  utmost  impartiality,  and  abandoned  himseli 
to  the  current  of  his  thoughts,  he  lost  himself  in  one  of  those 
reveries  which  enchant,  enlarge,  flatter  and  console  the  heart. 
His  reverie  must  have  been  a  long  one.     Night  came  on. 
Whether  it  were  that  he  tried  to  come  down  from  the  ladder 
or  made  some  unguarded  movement  in  the  belief  that  he  was 
standing  on  the  floor  (the  result  prevented  him  from  exactly 
remembering  how  the  accident  occurred),  he  fell,  his  head 
came  into  contact  with  a  stool,  he  lost  all  consciousness,  and 
remained  motionless  for  a  period  the  duration  of  which  was 
unknown  to  him.     He  was  aroused  by  a  gentle  voice  from  the 
kind  of  swoon  in  which  he  had  been  buried.     When  he  opened 
his  eyes,  a  glimpse  of  vivid  light  made  him  close  them  again 
promptly;  but  through  the  mist  which  enveloped  his  senses  he 
heard  the  chit-chat  of  two  women,  and  could  feel  two  young 
and  timid  hands  supporting  his  head.     He  soon  recovered  his 
senses,  and  could  see  by  the  light  of  one  of  those  old  lamps, 
called  double  ventilating  lamps,  a  young  girl's  head,  the  most 
exquisite  that  he  had  ever  beheld — one  of  those  heads  which  are 
often  regarded  as  a  mere  painter's  whim.    This  head,  however, 
realized  the  beau-ideal  which  every  artist  imagines,  and  which 
is  the  source  of  his  talent.     The  face  of  this  young  scranger 


THE  PURSE.  15] 

belonged,  so  to  speak,  to  the  fine  and  delicate  type  of  the 
school  of  Prudhon,  and  possessed  also  that  poetical  air  which 
Girodet  gave  to  his  fantastic  figures.  The  freshness  of  the 
temples,  the  regularity  of  the  eye-brows,  the  purity  af  the  out- 
lines, the  marks  of  maidenhood  so  clearly  imprinted  upon 
every  feature  of  the  face,  made  the  young  girl  a  perfect  crea- 
ture. Her  figure  was  slender  and  supple ;  her  limbs  delicate. 
Her  dress,  which  was  neat  and  simple,  did  not  bespeak  either 
riches  or  poverty.  On  recovering  his  self-possession,  the 
painter  expressed  his  admiration  by  a  look  of  surprise,  and 
muttered  some  confused  acknowledgments.  He  found  that 
his  forehead  was  being  pressed  by  a  handkerchief,  and  recog- 
nized, in  spite  of  the  smell  peculiar  to  studios,  the  powerful 
scent  of  ether,  which  had,  no  doubt,  been  used  to  recover  him 
from  his  swoon.  Then  at  length  he  noticed  an  old  woman, 
who  resembled  the  marquise  of  the  ancien  regime.  She  was 
holding  a  lamp,  and  giving  directions  to  the  younger  stranger. 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  young  girl  to  one  of  the  enquiries  made  by 
the  artist,  while  still  under  the  influence  of  the  disorder  which 
the  fall  had  introduced  into  his  ideas,  "  my  mother  and  I  heard 
the  noise  which  you  made  in  falling  upon  the  flooi,  and  fancied 
we  heard  a  groan.  The  silence  that  followed  the  noise  of  the 
fall  alarmed  us,  and  we  came  up  in  a  hurry.  Finding  the  key 
in  the  door,  wc  fortunately  took  the  liberty  of  coming  in,  and 
found  you  lying  motionless  upon  the  floor.  My  mother  went 
to  look  for  something  to  make  a  bandage  with,  and  to  bring 
you  round.  You  have  hurt  your  forehead,  there ;  can  you  feel 
il?" 

"Yes  now  I  can,"  replied  the  artist. 

•'  Oh  !  it  wont  be  anything  serious,"  pursued  the  old  mother. 
"  Luckily  your  head  fell  upon  that  mannikin." 

"  I  feel  infinitely  better,"  replied  the  painter.  "  All  I  want 
now  is  a  vehicle  to  take  me  home.  The  porteress  will  go  and 
gel  one  for  me."" 

He  wanted  to  express  his  thanks  to  the  two  strangers,  but  a 


152  BALZAC. 

every  phrase  he  uttered  the  elder  lady  cut  him  short  with  the 
words, — 

"Take  care,  sir,  to  apply  some  leeches  or  to  get  yoursel 
bled  to  morrow;  drink  a  few  cups  of  vulnerary,  and  take  care 
of  yourself;  falls  are  very  dangerous  things." 

The  young  girl  looked  furtively  at  the  painter  and  at  the 
pictures  in  the  studio.  Her  face  and  her  glances  showed  no 
thing  that  was  not  becoming ;  her  curiosity  looked  like  abstrac- 
tion, and  her  eyes  seemed  to  express  that  interest  which  women 
take,  with  graceful  spontaneity,  in  all  our  misfortunes.  The 
two  strangers  seemed  to  torget  the  painter's  works  in  the  pre- 
sence of  the  suffering  painter.  When  he  had  set  their  minds 
at  re^t  with  regard  to  his  condition,  they  left  the  room,  looking 
at  him  the  while  with  a  solicitude  that  was  quite  free  from 
being  either  pronounced  or  familiar.  They  did  not  harass 
him  with  questions  or  seek  to  inspire  him  with  a  desire  to 
become  acquainted  with  them.  Their  interest  was  perfectly 
natural,  and  in  good  taste.  Their  noble  and  simple  bearing 
at  first  produced  but  little  impression  upon  the  painter,  but 
afterwards,  when  he  recalled  all  the  circumstances  of  the  acci- 
dent, he  was  very  much  struck  by  their  behavior. 

When  they  had  reached  the  floor  which  lay  beneath  that  on 
which  the  studio  was  situated,  the  old  lady  quietly  said, — 
*'  Adelaide,  you  left  the  door  open." 

•*  In  order  to  hasten  to  my  assistance,"  said  the  young 
painter,  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"  Why,  mother,  you  yourself  ran  down  immediately,"  replied 
the  young  girl,  blushing. 

"  Would  you  like  us  to  go  down  with  you,"  said  the  mother 
to  the  artist,  "  the  staircase  is  very  dark." 

"  No  thank  you,  madame,  I  am  much  better  now." 

"  Keep  a  good  hold  on  the  balustrade." 

The  two  women  remained  upon  the  landing  in  order  to  light 
the  young  man  while  they  listened  to  his  footsteps. 

In  order  that  the  reader  may  understand  all  the  raciness  of 


THE  PUKSK  153 

this  little  drama  and  the  surprises  which  it  presented  to  the 
painter,  we  must  add  that  it  was  only  a  few  days  since  that  he 
had  fixed  his  studio  in  the  upper  story  of  this  house,  which 
was  situated  in  the  obscurest,  and  therefore  the  muddiest,  part 
of  the  Rue  de  Suresnes,  almost  in  front  of  the  Madeleine  and 
only  a  few  steps  from  his  lodgings,  which  were  in  the  Rue  des 
Champs  Elysdes.  The  renown  which  his  talent  had  procured  for 
him,  had  made  him  one  of  the  m«st  highly  esteemed  artists  in 
France,  so  that  he  was  now  leaving  want  behind  him,  and  was 
enjoying,  to  use  his  own  expressio»i,  his  last  struggles  with 
poverty.  Instead  of  going  to  work  in  one  of  those  studios 
which  are  to  be  found  near  the  barriers,  and  whose  moderate 
rents  were  proportioned  to  his  former  modest  earnings,  he  had 
gratified  his  daily  recurring  desire  to  avoid  a  long  journey,  and 
the  loss  of  that  time  which  had  now  become  more  valuable  to 
him  than  ever. 

No  one  in  the  world  would  have  inspired  so  much  interest 
as  Hippolyte  Schinner  if  he  would  have  consented  to  make 
himself  known ;  but  he  did  not  lightly  expose  the  secrets  of 
his  existence.  He  was  the  idol  of  a  poor  mother,  who  had 
educated  him  by  the  endurance  of  stern  privation.  Made- 
moiselle Schinaer,  the  daughter  of  an  Alsatian  farmer,  had 
never  been  married.  Her  tender  heart  had  formerly  been 
cruelly  wounded  by  a  wealthy  man  who  did  not  pretend  to  any 
great  delicacy  in  love  matters.  On  the  day  when,  a  young  girl 
in  all  the  brightness  of  her  beauty,  and  all  the  pride  of  life,  she 
gained,  at  the  expense  ot  her  heart  and  all  her  beautiful  illu- 
sions, that  disenchantment  which  comes  to  us  so  slowly,  yet 
all  too  soon  (for  we  put  off  as  long  as  possible  our  belief  in 
misfortune,  so  that  it  always  seems  to  have  arrived  too  quickly), 
on  that  very  day  she  went  through  a  century  of  reflection,  and 
took  refuge  in  religion  and  in  resignation.  She  refused  the 
alms  of  the  man  who  had  deceived  her,  renounced  the  world, 
and  made  her  shame  her  glory.  She  gave  herself  up  entirely 
to  maternal  love,  demanding  from  it  all  its  delights  in  exchange 


154  BALZAC. 

for  those  social  pleasures  to  which  she  was  bidding  adieu.  She 
supported  herself  by  work,  laying  up  for  herself  a  treasure  in 
her  boy.  And  so  at  length  the  day  and  hour  arrived  when  he 
repaid  her  for  all  the  long  and  lingering  sacrifices  of  her  in 
digence. 

At  the  last  exhibition  her  son  had  received  the  cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor.  The  newspapers  which  pronounced  unani- 
mously in  favor  of  the  unknown  genius,  were  still  ringing  with 
sincere  praise.  The  artists  themselves  hailed  Schinncr  as  a 
master,  and  the  dealers  covered  his  i)icturcs  with  gold  pieces. 
At  twenty-five,  Hippolyte  Schinner,  who  had  inherited  his 
mother's  woman's  heart,  had  con^e  to  understand  his  position 
in  the  world  better  than  he  ever  did.  In  his  desire  to  afford 
his  mother  those  enjoyments  which  society  had  withheld  from 
her  for  so  many  years,  he  lived  for  her ;  hoping  that,  by  dint  of 
his  fame  and  fortune,  he  might  some  day  see  her  happy,  rich, 
respected,  and  the  centre  of  a  circle  of  celebrated  men.  With 
that  view  Schinner  had  cho.'^en  his  friends  from  among  the  most 
honorable  and  distinguished  men.  Fastidious  in  the  selection 
of  his  acquaintances,  he  wished  still  further  to  raise  a  position 
which  his  talent  had  already  rendered  so  high.  The  toil  w 
which  he  had  been  doomed  from  youth,  by  forcing  him  to  re- 
main in  solitude — that  mother  of  lofty  thoughts — had  preserved 
in  him  those  beautiful  beliefs  which  gild  life's  earliest  years. 
His  youthful  mind  was  no  stranger  to  any  of  the  thousand 
delicacies  which  render  a  young  man  a  being  cur  generis,  a 
being  whose  heart  teems  with  felicities,  poetic  dreams  and 
virgin  hopes,  which,  however  feeble  in  the  eyes  of  world-worn 
people,  are  still  profound  from  their  simplicity  Nature  had 
endowed  him  with  those  gentle  and  polished  manners  which 
go  direct  to  the  heart,  and  win  even  those  who  do  not  under- 
stand them.  He  was  well  formed.  His  voice,  that  seemed  to 
come  from  the  heart,  inspired  the  hearts  of  others  with  noble 
feelings,  and  there  was  a  certain  candor  in  its  accents  which 
bespoke  genuine  modesty.     Those  who  saw  him  fell  themselves 


THE  PUESE.  155 

drawn  towards  him  by  some  moral  attraction  which  has  fortu- 
nately escaped  the  analysis  of  men  of  science,  who  would 
resolve  it  into  some  phenomenon  of  galvanism,  or  into  the  play 
of  some  fluid  or  other,  and  would  formulate  our  feelings  by 
given  proportions  of  oxygen  and  of  electricity. 

These  details  will  perhaps  explain  to  persons  of  a  bold  dis- 
position, and  to  men  who  are  overburdened  with  a  sense  of 
propriety,  why  Hippolyte  Schinner  did  not  take  advantage  of 
the  absence  of  the  porter  (who  had  gone  to  the  end  of  the  Rue 
de  la  Madeleine  in  search  of  a  coach)  to  cross-examine  the 
porteress  about  the  two  strangers  who  had  displayed  so  much 
kindness  of  heart  on  his  behalf. 

But  although  he,  for  his  part,  made  answer  yes  and  no  simply, 
to  the  inquiries,  (very  natural  under  the  circumstances,)  which 
the  woman  addressed  to  him  as  to  his  accidenit,  and  the  kind 
intervention  of  the  fourth-floor  lodgers,  he  could  not  prevent 
her  yielding  to  the  porters'  instinct ;  and  accordingly  she  began 
to  talk  to  him  about  the  two  strangers,  in  a  strain  colored  by 
her  peculiar  politics  and  the  subterraneous  opinions  of  the  por- 
ter's lodge. 

"Ah  !"  she  said,  "it  was  Mademoiselle  Lessigneur  and  her 
mother  beyond  a  doubt  j  they  have  lived  there  for  four  years. 
We  don't  yet  know  what  these  two  ladies  do.  In  the  morning, 
but  only  till  twelve  o'clock,  an  old  charwoman,  who  is  half  deaf 
and  as  dumb  as  a  wall,  comes  to  do  for  them.  In  the  even- 
ing tv/o  or  three  old  gentlemen  who  are  decorated  like  you,  sir, 
anxi  one  of  whom  has  a  carriage  and  servants,  and  they  say  he 
has  60,000  francs  a  year,  come  to  visit  them,  and  often  stay 
very  late. 

"  Moreover,  they  are  very  nice  lodgers,  like  yourself,  sir, 
and  economical, — why,  they  live  upon  nothing — as  soon  as  ever 
a  letter  arrives  they  pay  the  portage ;  it's  very  funny,  sir,  the 
mother  has  not  the  same  name  as  her  dar.ghter.  Ah,  when 
they  go  to  the  Tuileries,  mademijiselle  is  very  nicely  dressed, 
and  she  never  goes  out  without  being  follntjed  by  young  men?; 


156  BALZAC. 

but  she  shuts  the  door  in  their  faces,  and  she  is  quite  right, 
the  landlord  would  not  allow     .     .     ." 

But  here  the  carriage  drove  up.  Hippolyte  did  not  stay  to 
hear  any  more,  but  went  home.  His  mother,  to  whom  he 
related  what  had  happened,  dressed  the  wound  again,  and 
would  not  let  him  go  to  his  studio  next  day.  A  consultation 
having  been  held,  various  prescriptions  were  ordered,  and 
Hippolyte  remained  at  home  for  three  days.  During  this  seclu- 
sion his  unemployed  imagination  brought  before  him  vividly 
and  in  fragments  the  details  of  the  scene  which  had  followed  his 
swoon.  The  profile  of  the  young  girl  stood  out  clearly  against 
the  darkness  of  his  mind's  eye;  he  saw  again  the  wan  features 
of  the  mother,  or  felt  once  more  the  hands  of  Adelaide.  A 
gesture  which,  when  just  seen,  had  made  but  little  impression 
on  him,  but  whose  exquisite  grace  was  thrown  by  memory  into 
bold  relief,  reappeared  before  his  mind.  Then  a  particular 
posture,  or  the  tones  of  a  melodious  voice,  embellished  by 
memory's  distance,  came  back  quite  suddenly,  like  objects 
which,  when  plunged  into  the  depths  of  the  water,  return  to 
the  surface. 

Thus,  on  the  day  on  which  he  was  able  to  resume  his  labors, 
he  went  back  to  his  studio  very  early.  But  the  visit  which  he 
had,  incontestably,  the  right  to  pay  to  his  neighbors,  was  the 
real  cause  of  his  eagerness ;  he  had  already  forgotten  the 
pictures  which  he  had  begun.  At  the  moment  when  a  passion 
bursts  from  its  swaddling  clothes,  it  finds  inexplicable  sources 
of  delight,  which  those  who  have  loved  will  understand.  Thus, 
certain  persons  will  know  why  the  painter  mounted  the  stair- 
case leading  to  the  fourth  story  so  slowly,  and  will  be  in  the 
secret  of  the  rapid  pulsations  of  his  heart  at  the  moment 
when  he  caught  sight  of  the  brown  door  of  the  modest  apart- 
ments inhabited  by  Mademoiselle  Leseigneur.  This  girl,  who 
did  not  bear  her  mother's  name,  had  aroused  a  thousand 
sympathetic  feelings  in  the  young  painter ;  he  wished  to  trace 
between  her  and  himself  certain  similarities  of  position,  and 


THE  PURSE.  167 

invested  her  with  the  misfortunes  of  his  own  origin.  While  at 
his  work  Hippolyte  yielded  himself  up  readily  to  dreams  of 
love,  and  made  a  good  deal  of  noise  in  order  to  compel  the 
two  ladies  to  think  of  him,  just  as  he  was  thinking  of  Made- 
moiselle Leseigneur.  He  remained  till  late  in  his  studio,  dined 
there,  and  then  towards  seven  o'clock  went  down  to  call  upon 
his  neighbors. 

No  painter  of  manners  has  ventured  to  introduce  us  into 
the  really  curious  interiors  of  certain  Parisian  existences,  into 
the  secrets  of  those  dwellings  which  pour  forth  such  new  and 
elegant  toilettes  and  gaily  attired  women,  who,  in  all  outward 
seeming  rich,  exhibit  throughout  their  abodes  the  symptoms  of 
a  precarious  fortune. 

If  my  picture  be  in  this  respect  too  freely  drawn,  if  the 
reader  finds  my  account  tedious,  let  him  not  find  fault  with  the 
description,  which  forms  an  integral  part  of  the  story,  so  to 
speak ;  since  the  aspect  of  the  apartments  occupied  by  his  two 
neighbors  had  a  great  influence  upon  the  feelings  and  the 
hopes  of  Hippolyte  Schinner. 

The  house  belonged  to  one  of  those  landlords  who  have  a 
pre-existing  and  a  profound  horror  of  repairs  and  decorations; 
one  of  those  men  who  look  upon  their  position  cf  Parisian 
landlords  as  a  calling.  In  the  long  chain  of  moral  species, 
these  people  occupy  a  middle  position  between  the  miser  and 
the  usurer.  Optimists  by  reflection,  they  are  all  devoted  to 
the  status  quo  of  Austria.  If  you  talk  to  them  about  altering 
a  cupboard  or  a  door,  or  of  opening  the  most  necessary  venti- 
lator, their  eyes  flash,  their  bile  begins  to  work,  and  they  rear 
like  frightened  horses.  Has  the  wind  blown  down  some  of 
their  chimney-pots  ?  they  fall  ill  and  cut  off"  their  visit  to  the 
Gymnase,  or  the  Porte  Saint-Martin,  on  account  of  the  repairs. 
Hippolyte,  who  on  account  of  some  decorations  which  he 
wanted  carried  out  in  his  studio,  had  been  present  at  the 
gratuitous  representation  of  a  comic  scene  by  M,  Molineux, 
was  not  surprised  at  the  thick  black  hues,  the  greasy  tints,  the 


158  BALZAC. 

blotches,  and  other  disagreeable  accessories  which  adorned  the 
woodwork  of  the  apartments.  Such  stigmata  of  poverty, 
moreover,  are  not  altogether  wanting  in  poetic  charm  to  the 
eye  ot  an  artist. 

Mademoiselle  Leseigneur  herself  came  to  open  the  door. 
When  she  recognized  the  young  painter,  she  bowed  to  him, 
and  at  the  same  moment,  with  truly  Parisian  dexterity  and 
that  presence  of  mind  which  pride  confers,  she  turned  to  close 
the  door  of  a  glazed  partition,  through  which  Hippolyte  might 
have  caught  a  glimpse  of  some  linen  hanging  on  lines  stretched 
over  fuel-saving  stoves ;  of  an  old  folding  bed,  the  charcoal, 
coal,  irons,  filter,  crockeryware,  and  all  the  utensils  peculiar  to 
small  establishments.  Muslin  curtains,  extremely  neat,  care- 
fully concealed  this  caphatnaum  (such  is  the  familiar  name  for 
laboratories  of  this  description),  which,  moreover,  was  dimly 
lighted  by  windows  looking  into  the  neighboring  court.  With 
the  rapid  all  embracing  glance  of  an  artist,  Hippolyte  saw  at 
once  the  uses  to  which  this  first  room,  thus  cut  in  two,  was 
devoted ;  its  furniture  and  its  whole  character  and  condi- 
tion. The  more  honored  portion,  which  served  at  the  same 
time  as  an  ante-room,  and  a  dining-room,  was  hung  with  an 
old  rose-colored  paper,  with  a  velvet  border,  which  had  doubt- 
less been  manufactured  by  Reveillon.  The  holes  and  stains 
in  it  had  been  carefully  concealed  with  wafers.  Prints  repre- 
senting the  battles  of  Alexander,  by  Lebrun,  hung  in  their  j 
worn  frames  symmetrically  upon  the  walls.  In  the  middle  of ' 
the  room  was  an  old-fashioned  table  of  solid  mahogany  worn 
at  the  edges.  A  small  stove,  whose  straight  unjointed  flue 
could  scarcely  be  seen,  stood  before  the  hearth,  which  was 
blocked  up  by  a  chest  of  drawers.  The  chairs,  in  strange 
contrast  with  the  rest  of  the  room,  showed  some  traces  of 
former  splendor ;  they  were  of  carved  mahogany,  but  the  red 
morocco  of  the  seats,  the  gilded  nails  and  bindings,  showed 
scars  as  numerous  as  those  of  the  old  sergeants  of  the  Impe- 
rial Guard.    The  room  formed  a  museum  of  certain  objects 


THE   PURSE.  159 

chat  are  to  be  met  with  only  in  amphibious  establishments  of 
this  kind,  nameless  objects  that  are  neither  articles  of  luxury 
nor  of  poverty,  but  share  the  character  of  both.  Among  other 
curiosities,  Hippolyte  obseiTed  a  magnificently  mounted  tele- 
scope hanging  over  the  little  greenish  glass  which  adorned  the 
chimney-piece.  To  match  this  queer  bit  of  furniture,  there 
stood  between  the  fireplace  and  the  partition,  a  wretched  side- 
board, painted  to  look  like  mahogany,  the  most  difficult  of  all 
woods  to  imitate.  But  the  red  and  slippery  floor,  the  misera- 
ble little  carpets  placed  in  front  of  the  chairs,  the  furniture,  all 
exhibited  that  shining  neatness  which  perpetual  rubbing  and 
dusting  give  to  old-fashioned  bits  of  furniture ;  conferring  on 
them  a  false  lustre,  and  giving  prominence  to  their  defects, 
antiquity,  and  long  service. 

An  indefinable  odor,  the  result  of  the  exhalations  of  the 
capharnaum,  mixed  with  the  vapor  of  the  dining-room,  and  of 
the  staircase,  pervaded  the  apartments,  although  the  window 
was  open,  and  the  air  of  the  street  shook  the  muslin  curtains, 
which  were  carefully  drawn  so  as  to  hide  the  embrasure  on 
which  previous  lodgers  had  stamped  theii  presence  by  divers 
incrustations —    species  of  domestic  fresco. 

Adelaide  made  haste  to  open  the  door  of  the  second  room, 
into  which  she  ushered  the  artist  with  a  '.-ertain  amount  of 
pleasure.  Hippolyte,  who  hrid  formerly  seen  in  his  mother's 
home  the  same  signs  of  penur}',  observed  them  here  with  that 
keenness  of  impression  which  characterizes  the  first  acquisi- 
tions of  our  memory,  and  entered  more  readily  than  any  one 
else  could  have  done  into  the  details  of  this  existence.  But 
the  excellent  young  man,  when  he  recognized  the  objects  which 
had  surrounded  him  in  childhood's  days,  felt  no  contempt  for 
this  hidden  poverty,  and  no  pride  in  the  luxury  which  he  had 
won  for  his  mother. 

*'  Well,  sir.  I  hope  you  hare  quite  got  over  the  effects  of 
your  fall,"  said  the  old  mother,  rising  from  an  old-fashioned 


IGO  BALZAC. 

easy  chair  at  the  corner  of  the  fireplace,  and  giving  him  an 
arm-chair. 

"  Yes,  madame,  and  I  am  come  to  thank  you  for  the  kind 
care  you  both  bestowed  upon  me,  and  especially  mademoiselle, 
who  heard  me  fall."  As  Hippolyte  uttered  this  phrase,  redo- 
lent of  that  admirable  stupidity  which  the  first  agitations 
arising  from  true  love  give  rise  to,  he  looked  at  the  young  girl 
Adelaide  was  lighting  the  double-ventilating  lamp  in  order, 
doubtless,  that  she  might  put  out  of  sight  a  candle  stuck  in  a 
large  flat-bottomed  copper  candlestick  and  festooned  with 
some  salient  flutings,  the  result  of  an  unusual  amount  of 
running.  She  made  a  slight  bow,  took  the  candlestick  into 
the  anteroom,  and  returned  to  place  the  lamp  upon  the  mantel- 
piece. Then  she  sat  down  beside  her  mother,  a  little  in  the 
rear  of  the  artist,  in  order  that  she  might  have  a  good  look  at 
him,  while  all  the  time  she  seemed  to  be  busily  studying  the 
d^but  of  the  lamp,  whose  light,  arrested  by  the  moist-ure  of  a 
dirty  glass,  flickered  as  it  struggled  with  a  black  and  ill- 
trimmed  wick.  Catching  sight  of  the  large  mirror  upon  the 
mantel-shelf,  Hippolyte  speedily  fixed  his  eyes  upon  it  in  order 
to  admire  Adelaide.  The  girl's  little  manoeuvre,  therefore, 
served  only  to  embarrass  them  both. 

While  Hippolyte  chatted  with  Madame  Leseigneur,  for  so 
he  ventured  to  christen  her,  he  examined  the  room — not  point- 
edly but  furtively.  The  Egyptian  faces  of  the  iron  firedogs, 
barely  peeped  through  the  cinders  which  encumbered  the  grate, 
in  which  two  brands  were  trying  to  eff"ect  a  junction  in  front  of 
a  sham  log  made  of  fire-clay,  and  buried  as  carefully  as  a 
miser's  hoard.  The  old  Aubusson  carpet,  much  darned,  faded, 
and  thread-bare  as  a  pensioner's  coat,  was  not  large  enough  to 
cover  the  whole  floor,  the  chill  of  which  made  itself  sensible  to 
the  feet.  The  walls  were  decorated  with  a  reddish  paper,  re- 
presenting a  lampass  material  with  yellow  figures.  In  the 
middle  of  the  wall  opposite  to  the  windows  the  painter  saw  a 
chink  and  the  cracks  in  the  paper  produced  by  the  double 


THE  PURSE.  161 

doors  of  an  alcove  which  doubtless  formed  the  sleeping  quar- 
ters of  Madame  Leseigneur,  and  was  insufficiently  concealed 
by  a  sofa  placed  in  front  of  it.  Fronting  the  fireplace,  and 
over  a  mahogany  commode  whose  ornamentation  was  not 
wanting  either  in  richness  or  good  taste,  there  hung  the  portrait 
of  an  officer  of  high  rank.  The  light  was  not  good  enough  to 
enable  the  painter  to  see  the  portrait  distinctly,  but  from  what 
he  could  see  he  thought  that  the  execrable  daub  must  be  a 
production  of  some  Chinese  artist.  The  red  silk  curtains  and 
the  red  and  yellow  chair-covers  of  this  room  "  contrived  a 
double  debt  to  pay,"  were  alike  discolored.  On  the  marble 
top  of  the  commode  was  placed  a  valuable  malachite  tray, 
with  a  dozen  coffee  cups  magnificently  painted, — of  Sbvres- 
workmanship  beyond  a  doubt.  Upon  the  mantel-shelf  stood 
the  inevitable  Empire  timepiece  representing  a  warrior  driving 
a  four-horsed  chariot,  with  the  figures  of  the  twelve  hours? 
arranged  upon  the  spokes  of  the  wheel.  The  wax  candles  in 
the  candelabra  were  yellow  with  smoke,  and  at  each  end  of  the 
chimney-piece,  there  was  a  porcelain  vase  crowned  with  artifi- 
cial flowers  full  of  dust  and  adorned  with  moss. 

Hippolyte  observed  in  the  middle  of  the  room  a  card-table 
ready  for  use,  and  some  packs  of  new  cards.  To  the  eye  of 
an  observer  there  was  something  depressing  in  the  sight  of 
this  penury,  tricked  out  like  an  old  woman  who  wants  her  face 
to  lie.  The  spectacle  presented  was  such  as  to  induce  any 
man  of  sense  to  propose  to  himself  off-hand  this  dilemma : — 
"  Either  these  two  women  are  integrity  personified,  or  they 
lead  a  life  of  intrigue  and  gambling."  But  on  looking  at 
Adelaide  a  young  man  so  pure  as  Hippolyte  Schinner  was 
bound  to  credit  them  with  the  most  perfect  innocence  and  to 
ascribe  the  incongruities  presented  by  the  room  to  the  most 
honorable  causes. 

"  My  girl,"  said  the  elder  lady  to  the  younger,  "  make  up  a 
little  more  fire,  and  give  me  my  shawl." 

Adelaide  went  into  the  drawing-room,  in  which  no  doubt  .'ilie 

K 


1C2  BALZAC. 

slept,  and  returned  bringing  her  mother  a  cashmere  shawl 
which,  when  new,  must  have  been  very  valuable,  for  the  de- 
signs were  ot  Indian  workmanship;  but  old,  faded,  and  full  of 
darns,  it  was  in  keeping  with  the  furniture.  Madame  Leseig- 
neur  wraj^pcd  herself  up  in  it  very  artistically  and  with  all  the 
skill  of  an  old  woman  who  wanted  to  be  taken  at  her  word. 

The  young  girl  ran  lightly  to  the  cap/iarnaum,  Sind  reappeared 
with  a  handful  of  small  pieces  of  wood,  which  she  courageously 
threw  upon  the  sinking  fire.  It  would  be  very  difficult  to 
transcribe  ihc  conversation  which  took  place  between  these 
three  people.  Guided  by  that  tact  which  the  experience  of 
early  troubles  rarely  fails  to  confer,  Hippolyte  did  not  venture 
to  indulge  in  the  slightest  remark  relating  to  the  position  of  his 
neighbors ;  having  under  his  eyes  the  symptoms  of  a  penury 
so  thinly  veiled.  The  most  ordinary  question  would  have 
been  indiscreet  and  could  only  be  conceded  to  old-established 
friendship.  Yet  at  the  same  time  the  artist  was  deeply 
absorbed  by  this  poverty  in  disguise ;  it  wrung  his  generous 
heart ;  but  knowing  that  every  kind  of  pity,  even  the  most 
amiable,  may  be  ofiensive,  he  felt  ill  at  ease  on  account  of  the 
discordance  between  his  thoughts  and  language.  The  two 
ladies  began  by  talking  about  painting,  for  women  well  under- 
stand the  embarrassment  that  underlies  a  first  visit.  They 
perhaps  leel  it ;  and  the  character  of  their  intellect  supplies 
them  with  a  thousand  resources  for  putting  an  end  to  it.  By 
questioning  the  young  man  about  the  material  processes  of 
his  art  and  about  his  studies,  Adelaide  and  her  mother  con- 
trived to  embolden  him  to  talk.  The  indefinable  trifles  of 
which  their  friendly  conversation  consisted  induced  Hippolyte 
quite  naturally,  to  give  vent  to  remarks  and  reflections  which 
displayed  the  nature  of  his  moral  sentiments  and  the  tone  of 
his  mind.  Grief  had  prematurely  withered  the  old  lady's 
face,  which  had  no  doubt  once  been  beautiful,  though  now 
all  that  remained  to  her  were  the  striking  features,  the  outlines 
in  one  word  the  skeleton,  of  a  countenance  which  displayed, 


THE   PURSE.  163 

as  a  whole,  great  refinement  of  intellect  and  much  grace  in 
the  play  of  the  eye.  There  in  the  play  of  the  eye, 
could  be  traced  the  expression  peculiar  to  the  ladies  of 
the  old  French  Court,  an  expression  which  cannot  be 
defined.  Those  fine  and  subtle  features  might  just  as  well 
be  taken  to  denote  bad  sentiments  and  suggest  the  existence 
of  female  craft  and  cunning  carried  to  a  high  pitch  of  perver- 
sity, as  to  indicate  the  delicacy  of  a  lofty  spirit.  In  fact  the 
face  of  a  woman  embarrasses  the  ordinary  observer,  because 
the  difference  between  candor  and  duplicity,  between  the 
genius  of  intrigue  and  the  genius  of  right  feeling,  cannot  there 
be  traced.  He  who  is  gifted  with  penetrating  vision  divines 
those  subtle  shades  of  difference  arising  from  the  less  or 
greater  curvature  of  a  line,  the  less  or  greater  depth  of  a 
dimple,  the  less  or  greater  prominence  of  a  projecting  feature. 
The  correct  appreciation  of  such  diagnostics  is  entirely  within 
the  province  of  intuition,  which  only  can  discover  what  all  are 
concerned  to  hide.  The  physiognomy  of  the  old  lady  resem- 
bled the  room  which  she  occupied  in  this  respect — that  it 
seemed  equally  hard  to  discover  whether  beneath  this  penury 
lurked  vice  or  strict  integrity  as  to  find  out  whether  Adelaide's, 
mother  was  an  old  coquette  accustomed  to  weigh,  to  calculate, 
and  barter  ever^nhing,  or  a  loving  woman  full  of  noble  and 
amiable  qualities.  But  at  Schinner's  time  of  life  the  heart's 
first  impulse  is  to  belioft^e  in  the  existence  of  good,  and  accord- 
ingly as  he  looked  at  the  noble,  almost  disdainful,  forehead  of 
Adelaide,  and  beheld  her  eyes  that  were  so  full  of  mind  and' 
thought,  he  inhaled,  so  to  speak,  (he  suave  and  modest  scent 
of  virtue.  In  the  midst  of  their  talk  he  seized  the  opportunity 
of  speaking  of  portraits  in  general,  so  as  to  acquire  the  right 
of  examining  the  hideous  pastil,  all  the  tints  of  which  had 
faded,  while  the  greater  part  of  the  color  had  come  bodily 
away. 

"You  prize  that  painting,  doubtless,  on  account  of  the 


lG4s  TALZAU. 

likeness,  ladies,  for  the  drawing  itself  is  horrible  ?**  he  said, 
looking  at  Adelaide. 

"  It  was  taken  at  Calcutta,  in  a  great  hurry/'  replied  the 
mother  with  emotion. 

She  gazed  at  the  ill-favored  sketch  with  that  entire  self- 
abandonment  to  which  the  memories  of  by-gone  happiness  give 
rise  when  they  awake  and  bathe  the  heart  as  with  some  bene- 
ficent dew,  to  the  refreshing  influences  of  which  we  delight  to 
give  way ;  but  there  was  also  in  the  expression  of  the  old 
lady's  face,  the  face  of  an  enduring  sorrow.  So  at  least  did 
the  artist  mterpret  the  attitude  and  countenance  of  his  neigh- 
bor. He  thereupon  went  up  to  her  and  took  a  seat  beside 
her.  "  Madame,"  he  said,  "  a  little  time  longer  and  ^he  colors 
of  -this  pastil  will  have  completely  disappeared.  The  portrait 
will  then  exist  only  in  your  memory ;  where  you  will  behold  a 
face  that  is  dear  to  you,  others  will  not  see  anything  at  all. 
Will  you  permit  me  to  transfer  this  likeness  to  canvas,  where  it 
will  be  more  securely  fixed  than  on  this  paper.  Grant  me,  on 
the  score  of  our  neighborhood,  the  pleasure  of  rendering  you 
this  service.  There  are  hours  during  which  an  artist  loves  to 
repose  from  his  compositions  by  undertaking  works  of  a  less 
elevated  character ;  it  will  therefore  be  a  diversion  to  me  lo 
reproduce  this  head." 

The  old  lady  trembled  as  she  heard  these  words,  and  Ade. 
laide  cast  at  the  p.-iinter  one  of  those  Concentrated  glances 
which  seem  like  an  emanation  from  the  soul.  Hippolyte 
wanted  to  be  connected  with  his  two  neighbors  by  some  link, 
and  to  acquire  the  right  to  take  a  share  in  their  existence.  His 
offer  being  addressed  to  the  liveliest  affections  of  the  heart, 
was  the  only  one  which  it  was  possible  for  him  to  make ;  it , 
satisfied  his  artist  pride,  and  was  in  no  way  humiliating  to  the 
two  ladies.  Madame  Leseigneur  accepted  his  offer  without 
expressing  any  enthusiasm  or  regret,  but  with  the  feeling  of 
noble  hearts  who  know  the  strength  of  the  bonds  created  by 


THE  PURSE.  1C5 

such  obligations,  aiid  whose  acceptance  of  them  is  therefore  a 
magnificent  eulogy — a  proof  of  esteem. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  artist,  "  that  the  uniform  is  that 
of  a  naval  officer." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  it  is  the  uniform  of  the  captain 
of  a  ship.  My  husband,  Mons.  de  Rouville,  died  in  Batavia' 
from  the  result  of  a  wound  received  during  an  engagement 
with  an  English  vessel  which  fell  m  with  him  on  the  coast  of 
Asia.  His  vessel  was  a  frigate  of  fifty-six  guns,  while  the  Re- 
venge was  a  ship  carrying  ninety-six.  The  combat  was  very 
unequal,  but  he  defended  himself  so  bravely  that  the  fight 
lasted  till  midnight,  and  he  was  able  to  get  away.  When  I 
returned  to  France,  Bonaparte  was  not  yet  paramount,  and  they 
refused  me  a  pension.  When  latterly  I  applied  for  it  again, 
the  minister  harshly  told  me  that  if  the  Baron  de  Rouville  had 
emigrated  I  should  not  have  lost  him,  and  that  he  would  be  a 
rear-admiral ;  and  finally  his  Excellency  wound  up  by  opposing 
my  claim  with  some  law  about  forfeitures.  I  only  took  the 
step,  urged  to  it  by  my  friends,  for  poor  Adelaide's  sake.  I 
always  felt  a  sort  of  repugnance  to  making  a  sorrow  which  robs 
a  woman  of  her  voice  and  strength,  the  ground  of  an  appeal 
for  alms.  I  don't  like  this  setting  of  a  money  value  upon 
blood  that  has  been  irreparably  spilled." 

"  Mother,  this  is  a  subject  which  always  makes  you  ill." 
When  Adelaide  had  said  these  words,  Madame  Leseigneur  de 
Rouville  bowed  her  head  and  was  silent. 

"  I  thought,  sir,"  said  the  young  lady  to  Hippolyte,  "  that 
an  artist's  work  was  as  a  rule  very  quiet  ? " 

At  this  question  Hippolyte  blushed,  remembering  the  noise 
he  had  made.  Adelaide  did  not  pursue  the  subject,  and  saved 
him  the  trouble  of  telling  some  fib,  by  suddenly  rising  as  she 
heard  the  noise  of  a  carriage  stopping  at  the  door.  She  went 
into  her  own  room,  whence  she  returned  carrying  in  her  hand 
two  large  candlesticks  furnished  with  wax  candles  which  had 
already  done  duty.     These   she  speedily  lighted,  and  then' 


166  BALZAC. 

without  waiting  for  the  tinkle  of  the  bell,  she  opened  the  door 
of  the  anteroom,  in  which  she  left  the  lamp.  The  sound  of  a 
kiss  given  and  returned  went  straight  to  the  very  heart  of  Hip- 
polyte ;  but  the  young  man's  impatience  to  see  who  it  was  that 
treated  Adelaide  with  such  familiarity  was  not  quickly  satisfied. 
The  new  arrivals  had  a  whispered  conversation  with  Adelaide, 
which  he  thought  very  protracted.  At  length,  Mademoiselle 
de  Rouville  reappeared,  followed  by  two  men  whose  dress, 
faces,  and  general  appearance  a  whole  history  in  themselves. 
The  first,  who  was  about  sixty  years  of  age,  wore  one 
of  those  coats  which  were  invented,  I  believe,  for  Louis  XVIII., 
who  was  then  upon  the  throne  ;  a  kind  of  coat  which  offered  a 
solution  of  the  most  difficult  of  all  vestmental  problems,  that 
ought  to  have  immortalized  the  tailor  who  discovered  it.  This 
genius  understood  for  certain  the  art  of  transitions,  which  was 
the  very  spirit  and  essence  of  that  epoch  of  political  mobility. 
Is  it  not  a  very  rare  merit  to  be  able  to  gauge  the  era  in  which 
we  live  ?  This  coat,  which  the  young  men  of  this  age  may 
take  for  a  fable,  was  neither  a  civil  nor  a  military  coat,  and 
could  pass  in  turn  for  a  military  or  a  civil  coat.  The  flaps  of 
the  two  hind  tails  were  ornamented  with  embroidered  fieuis- 
de-lys.  The  gilt  buttons  were  also  stamped  with  jJcnrs-de-lys. 
Upon  the  shoulders  were  two  empty  loops,  awaiting  their  use- 
less epaulettes.  These  two  traces  of  martiality  stood  there  like 
a  petition  without  a  countersign.  In  the  case  of  this  old  man 
the  button-hole  of  this  coat  of  royal  blue  blossomed  with  several 
ribands.  It  was  clear  that  he  always  kept  his  three-cornered 
hat,  with  its  golden  string,  in  his  hand ;  for  the  snowy  ai/es  de 
pigeon  of  his  powdered  hair  showed  not  a  trace  of  the  pressure 
of  a  hat.  He  did  not  look  more  than  fifty,  and  seemed  to 
enjoy  robust  health.  While  his  physiognomy  exhibited  the 
frank  and  loyal  character  of  the  old  cmigrh,  it  also  bespoke  the 
light  and  easy  morals,  the  gay  amours,  and  the  levity  of  those 
musketeers  who  were  formerly  so  renowned  in  the  fasti  of 
gallantry.     His  gestures,   his  gait,  and  his   manners  all  an- 


THE  PURSE.  1G7 

nounced  that  he  did  not  want  to  be  cured  either  of  his  royal- 
ism,  or  of  his  rehgion,  or  of  his  amours. 

A  truly  fantastic  figure  it  was  which  followed  this  pretentious 
Voliigeur  de  Louis  J  .  I- .  (for  such  was  the  nickname  given  by 
the  Bonapartists  to  these  noble  relics  of  the  monarchy.)  But 
fairly  to  paint  this  second  figure  it  should  be  made  the  princi- 
pal object  of  the  picture  in  which  it  is  but  an  accessory. 
Imagine,  then,  a  dry  and  wiry  figure,  dressed  like  that  which 
has  been  first  described,  but  being  only  its  reflection,  its  shadow 
if  you  will.  While  the  coat  of  the  former  was  new,  that  of  the 
latter  was  old  and  shabby.  The  powder  in  the  hair  of  the 
second  seemed  less  white,  the  gold  of  his  lilies  was  less  bright, 
his  epaulette  loops  were  more  drooping  and  more  shrivelled  : 
his  intellect  was  less  keen,  and  his  age  more  advanced  than 
that  of  the  other.  In  short  he  realized  the  saying  of  Rivarol 
about  Champcenetz : — "  He  is  my  moonshine."  He  was  but 
the  other's  double — a  poor  pale  double,  for  there  existed  be- 
tween them  all  the  difference  that  there  is  between  the  first  and 
the  last  proof  of  an  engraving.  This  mute  old  fellow  was  a 
mystery  to  the  painter,  and  a  mystery  he  always  remained.  The 
chevalier  (for  he  was  a  chevalier)  did  not  speak  to  any  one  and 
no  one  spoke  to  him.  Was  he  a  friend,  a  poor  relation,  a  man 
who  stuck  to  the  old  gallant  as  a  humble  companion  sticks  to 
an  old  woman  ? 

Was  he  something  between  the  dog,  the  parrot,  and  the 
friend  ?  Had  he  saved  the  fortune,  or  merely  the  life  of  his 
benefactor  ?  Was  he  the  trim  of  a  second  Captain  Toby  ?  Not 
only  at  the  Baronne  de  Rouvilles  but  elsewhere  also  he  excited 
curiosity  without  ever  satisfying  it.  Who,  living  under  the 
Restoration,  could  possibly  recall  the  attachment  which  before 
the  Revolution  bound  this  chevalier  to  his  friend's  wife,  who 
had  now  been  in  her  grave  for  twenty  years  ? 

The  personage  who  seemed  the  more  recent  of  these  two 
relics  advanced  gallantly  towards  the  Baronne  de  Rouville, 
kissed  her  hand,  and  sat  down  by  her  side.     The  other  bowed 


1(38  BALZAC. 

and  placed  himself  near  to  his  type  at  a  distance  represented 
by  the  width  of  two  chairs.  Adelaide  went  and  leaned  her 
elbows  upon  the  back  of  the  armchair  occupied  by  the  old 
gentleman,  unconsciously  imitating  the  posture  which  Gudrin 
in  his  celebrated  picture  has  given  to  the  sister  of  Dido.  Al- 
though the  familiarity  of  the  old  gentleman  was  that  of  a  father, 
the  liberties  which  he  took  seemed  for  the  moment  to  displease 
the  young  lady. 

"  What,  are  you  sulky  with  me  ?"  said  he. 

Thereupon,  he  looked  at  Schinner  with  one  of  those  oblique 
glances  full  of  subtilty  and  insight  which  may  be  called  diplo- 
matic glances.  Its  expression  showed  the  prudent  uneasiness, 
the  polished  curiosity,  of  well-bred  people  who  at  sight  of  a 
stranger  seem  to  put  the  question,  "  Is  he  one  of  us?" 

"  This  is  our  neighbor,"  said  the  old  lady,  pointing  to  Hip- 
polyte.  **  The  gentleman  is  a  celebrated  painter,  whose  name 
you  must  knov  in  spite  of  your  indifference  in  matters  of  art." 

The  gentleman  observed  his  old  friend's  roguish  omission  of 
the  name,  and  bowed  to  the  young  man. 

"  Certainly,"  he  said,  "  1  heard  the  gentleman's  pictures 
much  talked  about  at  the  last  exhibition.  Talent  has  glorious 
privileges,  sir,"  he  added,  looking  at  the  red  riband  of  the 
artist.  "  The  distinction  which  w^e  purchase  at  the  cost  of  our 
blood  and  long  service,  you  obtain  while  still  young ;  but  all 
kinds  of  distinction  are  sisters,"  he  continued,  placing  his  hands 
upon  his  cross  of  St.  Louis. 

Hippolyte  murmured  a  few  words  of  thanks  and  again  be- 
came silent,  confining  himself  to  admiring  with  growing  enthu- 
siasm the  beautiful  girlish  head,  which  had  bewitched  him.  He 
was  very  soon  buried  in  this  contemplation,  and  thought  no 
more  about  the  extreme  poverty  of  the  household.  To  him 
the  face  of  Adelaide  stood  out  in  an  atmosphere  of  light.  He 
gave  brief  answers  to  the  questions  addressed  to  him,  which  he 
fortunately  heard,  thanks  to  a  singular  faculty  of  the  mind, 
which  enables  us  at  times  to  divide  the  current  of  our  thoughts. 


•   THE   PURSE.  1G9 

Has  it  not  happened  to  every  one  of  us  to  remain  plunged  in 
some  sad  or  pleasurable  meditation,  to  listen  to  its  voice  within 
ourselves,  and  at  the  same  time,  attend  to  a  conversation  or  a 
reading  ?  Admirable  duality  !  how  often  does  it  enable  us 
patiently  to  endure  the  bore  ! 

Hope,  fruitful  and  smiling,  filled  Hippolyte  with  a  thousand 
thoughts  of  happiness,  and  he  no  longer  cared  to  take  notice  J 
of  any  of  his  surroundings.     He  was  a  child  full  of  delight, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  disgraceful  to  analyze  pleasure. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  certain  time,  he  perceived  that  the  old 
lady  and  her  daughter  were  playing  cards  with  the  old 
gentleman. 

As  for  the  satellite  of  the  latter,  he,  faithful  to  his  character 
of  shadow,  was  standing  behind  his  friend  watching  his  game, 
and  relying  to  the  mute  inquiries  of  the  card-player  by  little 
grimaces  of  approval,  which  reflected  the  questioning  move- 
ments of  the  other's  face. 

"  Du  Halga,  I  always  lose,"  said  the  gentleman. 

"  You  discard  badly,"  replied  the  Baronne  de  Rouville. 

"  Why  for  the  last  three  months  I  have  not  been  able  to 
win  a  single  game  from  you,"  he  continued. 

"  Have  you  the  aces,  Monsieur  le  Comte  ? "  asked  the 
old  lady. 

"  Yes,  that  is  another  for  me  to  mark,"  he  said. 

"  Shall  I  be  your  counsellor?  "  asked  Adelaide. 

"  No,  no,  keep  opposite  to  me.  Zounds  !  it  would  be  too 
hard  to  lose  my  money,  and  the  sight  of  your  face." 

At  last  the  match  came  tv^  an  end.  The  gentleman  took  out 
his  purse,  and  throwing  two  louis  upon  the  cloth  somewhat 
ill-temperedly,  exclaimed, — 

"  Forty  francs,  as  true  as  gold.  And,  what  the  deuce  !  It's 
eleven  o'clock." 

"  It's  eleven  o'clock,"  repeated  the  mute  looking  at  the 
artist. 

The  young  man  hearing  this  phrase  a  little  more  distinctly 


170  BALZAC. 

than  all  the  others,  came  to  the  conclusion  it  was  time  to  go. 
Returning,  therefore,  to  this  lower  world  of  vulgar  ideas,  he 
stumbled  on  some  commonplaces  for  the  sake  of  saying  some- 
thing, bowed  to  the  baroness,  her  daughter,  the  two  strangers, 
and  quitted  the  apartments  under  the  influence  of  the  maiden 
joys  of  genuine  love ;  nor  did  he  seek  to  analyze  the  little 
events  of  the  evening. 

The  next  day  the  young  artist  felt  the  keenest  possible  desire 
to  see  Adelaide  again.  If  he  had  listened  to  the  voice  of 
passion  he  would  have  invaded  his  neighbors  at  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  as  soon  as  he  reached  his  studio.  He  had,  how- 
ever, still  sufficient  reason  left  to  wait  till  the  afternoon.  But 
so  soon  as  he  thought  he  could  in  decency  present  himself 
before  Madame  de  Rouville,  he  went  down,  and  while  his 
heart  beat  loudly,  rang  the  bell.  The  door  was  opened  by 
Mademoiselle  Leseigneur,  and  Hippolyte,  blushing  like  a 
young  girl,  timidly  asked  for  the  portrait  of  the  Baron  de 
Rouville. 

"  Oh,  come  in,"  said  Adelaide,  who  no  doubt  had  heard 
him  coming  down  iiom  his  studio. 

Bashlul  and  out  of  countenance,  so  stupid  with  happiness 
that  he  knew  not  what  to  say,  the  artist  followed  her.  To  see 
Adelaide,  to  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress  after  having  spent  the 
livelong  morning  in  wishing  to  be  near  her,  after  having  risen 
from  his  seat  a  hundred  times  saying,  "  now  I  am  going  down," 
and  then  not  going  down ;  this  to  him  was  life,  and  life  so 
abounding  that  such  sensations  long  protracted  would  have 
worn  his  very  soul.  The  heart  possesses  the  singular  power  of 
giving  an  extraordinary  value  to  the  merest  trifles.  What  a  joy 
it  is  for  a  traveller  to  gather  a  blade  of  grass,  an  unfamiliar  leaf, 
if  he  has  risked  his  life  in  pursuit  of  them.  Thus  it  is  with 
love's  trifles.  The  old  lady  was  not  in  the  reception-room. 
When  the  young  girl  found  herself  alone  with  the  painter,  she 
brought  forward  a  chair  in  order  to  reach  the  portrait,  but 
finding  that  she  could  not  unhook  it  without  placing  her  fool 


THE   PURSE.  171 

upon  the  commode,  she  turned  to  Hippolyte,  and  blushing 
said  to  him,  "  I  am  not  tall  enough.     Will  you  take  it  down  ?  " 

It  was  a  feeling  of  modesty,  traceable  in  the  expression  of 
her  features  and  in  the  tones  of  her  voice,  that  was  the  real 
motive  of  her  request ;  and  the  young  man,  understanding  this, 
threw  her  one  of  those  intelligent  looks  which  are  love's 
sweetest  language.  Seeing  that  the  artist  had  guessed  her 
feelings,  Adelaide  dropped  her  eyes  proudly,  in  a  manner  the 
secret  of  which  only  maidens  possess.  Finding  not  a  word  to 
say  for  himself  and  feeling  almost  intimidated,  the  artist  took 
the  picture  down,  examined  it  carefully,  setting  it  in  a  proper 
light  near  the  window,  and  went  away,  simply  saying  to 
Mademoiselle  Leseigneur,  "  I  will  return  it  to  you  soon." 

During  this  brief  moment  both  of  them  felt  one  of  those 
keen  emotions  whose  effects  upon  the  mind  may  be  compared 
to  the  effects  produced  by  a  stone  thrown  into  a  lake.  The 
sweetest  reflections  spring  up  and  succeed  one  another,  inde- 
finable, numerous,  vague,  agitating  the  heart,  just  as  the 
rippling  circles,  starting  from  the  spot  where  the  stone  was 
Lhrown  in,  long  continue  to  furrow  the  surface  of  the  water. 

Armed  with  the  portrait,  Hippolyte  returned  to  his  studio. 
His  easel  had  already  been  fitted  with  a  canvas,  his  palette 
charged  with  colors,  his  brushes  cleansed,  and  the  place  and 
light  in  which  he  was  to  work,  fixed.  So  until  dinner-time  he 
labored  away  at  the  portrait  with  that  ardor  which  artists  devote 
to  their  whims.  That  very  evening  he  returned  to  the  Baroness 
de  Rouville's  and  remained  there  from  nine  o'clock  until 
eleven.  Barring  the  different  topics  of  conversation,  this 
evening  bore  a  close  resemblance  to  the  preceding.  The  two 
old  gentlemen  came  at  the  same  time,  the  same  match  at 
piquet  took  place,  the  same  phrases  fell  from  the  lips  of  the 
players,  the  sum  lost  by  Adelaide's  friend  was  about  as  large 
as  that  which  he  had  lost  the  night  before.  Only  Hippolyte, 
who  had  gained  a  little  confidence,  ventured  to  chat  with  the 
}oung  lady. 


172  BALZAC. 

Thus  eight  days  glided  away.  Meanwhile  the  feelings  ot 
the  artist  and  Adelaide  underwent  those  slow  and  exquisite 
transformations  whereby  two  hearts  are  brought  into  complete 
unison.  Thus  day  by  day  the  look  with  which  Adelaide  greeted 
her  friend  became  more  intimate,  more  confiding,  njore  gay 
and  frank.  Her  voice  and  manners  became  more  affectionate 
and  familiar.  They  laughed  and  talked,  communicated  their 
thoughts  to  each  other,  and  spoke  about  themselves  with  all 
the  simplicity  of  two  children  who  have  contrived  in  the  space 
ofa  single  day  to  know  each  other  as  if  they  had  been  acquainted 
for  three  years.  Schinner  wanted  to  learn  piquet.  Being 
•quite  ignorant  of  the  game,  he  naturally  committed  blunder 
after  blunder,  and,  like  the  old  gentleman,  lost  nearly  every 
match.  Without  having  yet  told  their  love,  the  two  young  people 
knew  that  they  belonged  to  each  other.  Hippolyte  took  a 
delight  in  exercising  his  power  over  the  timid  girl.  Many  were 
tht  concessions  made  by  Adelaide,  who  in  her  timidity  and 
•devotion  was  the  dupe  of  those  mock  fits  of  coldness  which 
the  least  skilful  lover  and  the  most  simple-minded  young  girl 
will  plan  and  constantly  employ,  just  as  spoiled  children  abuse 
the  power  with  which  a  mother's  love  invests  them.  Accordingly 
all  familiarity  between  the  old  count  and  Adelaide  promptly 
ceased.  The  young  girl  correctly  interpreted  the  melancholy 
fits  of  the  young  painter,  the  thoughts  that  underlay  his  knitted 
brow  and  breathed  in  the  brusque  accent  of  the  few  words  he 
uttered  when  the  old  gentleman  freely  kissed  Adelaide  on  neck 
or  hand.  She,  on  her  part,  too,  soon  began  to  ask  her  lover 
for  a  strict  account  of  his  slightest  actions ;  she  was  so  uneasy, 
so  unhappy,  when  Hippolyte  did  not  come  to  see  them,  and 
scolded  him  so  soundly  when  he  absented  himself,  that  he  was 
obliged  to  give  up  seeing  his  friends  and  relinquished  general 
society  altogether.  Adelaide  betrayed  the  jealously  which  is 
innate  in  woman,  on  finding  that  sometimes  after  leaving 
Madame  de  Rouville's  at  eleven  o'clock  the  artist  would  pay 
visits  elsewhere  and  saunter  through  the  gayest  drawing-rooms 


THE   PURSE.  I7i^ 

in  Paris,  She  told  him  that  a  hfe  of  that  kind  was  injurious  to 
the  health ;  then,  with  that  intense  earnestness  which  gains  so 
much  power  from  the  voice,  the  gestures  and  the  look  of  the 
beloved  one,  she  maintained  that  "a  man  who  was  obliged  to 
squander  on  several  woman  at  once,  his  leisure  time  and  the 
graces  of  his  intellect  could  not  be  the  object  of  a  very  strong 
affection." 

Thus  the  artist  was  led,  as  much  by  the  despotism  of  passion 
as  by  the  instances  of  a  loving  girl,  to  confine  his  existence  to 
the  small  apartment  where  everthing  was  to  his  mind.  In 
short,  never  was  love  more  ardent  or  more  pure.  The  faith  and 
delicacy,  which  existed  equally  between  them,  nurtured  their 
mutual  passion,  without  the  aid  of  those  sacrifices  by  which 
many  persons  seek  to  prove  to  each  other  their  affection. 
There  existed  between  them  a  constant  interchange  of  feelings 
so  sweet  that  they  did  not  know  which  of  the  two  gave  or 
received  the  most.  A  spontaneous  inclination  rendered  the 
union  of  their  hearts  always  very  close.  The  progress  of  this 
genuine  affection  was  so  rapid  that  two  months  after  the  acci- 
dent to  which  the  artist  owed  the  happiness  of  knowing 
Adelaide,  their  lives  had  become  one  life.  From  early  morn- 
ing the  young  girl  hearing  some  one  walking  overhead  could 
say  to  herself,  **  There  he  is."  When  Hippolyte  went  home 
to  dine  at  his  mother's  he  never  failed  to  look  in  and  say 
"  How  do  you  do"  to  his  neighbors,  and  in  the  evening  he 
would  come  at  the  accustomed  hour  with  all  a  lover's  punctu- 
ality ;  so  that  no  woman,  not  even  the  most  tyrannical  and  the 
most  ambitious  in  the  matters  of  love,  could  have  brought 
the  slightest  reproach  against  the  young  painter.  Thus  Ade- 
laide experienced  the  unmixed  and  boundless  happiness  of 
seeing  the  complete  realization  of  that  ideal  which  at  her  time 
of  life  it  is  so  natural  to  dream  of.  The  old  gentleman  did 
not  come  so  often,  the  jealous  Hippolyte  had  supplanted  him 
in  the  evening  at  the  green  table-  and  in  his  constant  losses. 

Yet  in  the  midst  of  his  happiness  he  was  beset  by  one  im- 


174  BALZAC. 

portunate  idea,  when  he  bethought  him  of  the  unfortunate 
circumstances  of  Madame  de  Rouville,  for  he  had  acquired 
more  than  one  proof  of  her  distress.  Several  times  already 
he  had  said  to  himself  on  his  way  home,  "What,  twenty  francs 
every  evening?"  and  he  did  not  dare  to  avow  even  to  himself 
the  odious  suspicion. 

It  took  him  two  months  to  paint  the  likeness,  and  when  it 
Was  finished,  varnished,  and  framed,  he  considered  it  one 
of  his  best  works.  Madame  de  Rouville  had  said  nothing 
further  to  him  about  it.  Was  this  carelessness  or  pride  ?  The 
artist  did  not  care  to  fathom  the  motives  of  her  silence.  He 
entered  gaily  into  a  little  plot  with  Adelaide,  to  put  the 
portrait  in  its  place  while  Madame  de  Rouville  should  be  away. 
So  one  day  during  her  mother's  customary  walk  at  the  Tuilenes, 
Adelaide  went  up  alone  for  the  first  time  to  Hippolyte's  studio, 
under  pretence  of  seeing  the  portrait  in  the  favorable  light  in 
which  it  had  been  painted.  She  stood  there  mute  and  motion- 
less, lost  in  a  delightful  reverie  wherein  all  the  feelings  of  a 
woman  blended  in  one — for  are  they  not  all  summed  up  in 
boundless  admiration  for  the  man  she  loves?  When  the 
artist,  uneasy  at  her  silence,  bent  down  to  look  at  the  young 
girl,  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  without  being  able  to  utter 
a  single  word,  but  two  tears  fell  from  her  eyes.  Hippolyte 
seized  her  hand,  and  for  a  moment  they  looked  at  each  other 
in  silence,  both  wishing,  but  fearing,  to  confess  their  love.  The 
artist  held  Adelaide's  hand  in  both  of  his,  and  the  equal  warmth 
and  equal  movement  told  the  lovers  that  their  hearts  beat  with 
an  equal  force.  Overcome  with  emotion  the  young  girl  drew 
herself  gently  away  from  Hippolyte  and  said  with  a  look  of 
simplicity,  "  You  will  make  my  mother  very  happy." 

"  Only  your  mother?"  he  inquired. 

"  Oh,  as  for  me,  I  am  too  happy  already." 

The  artist  bent  his  head  and  was  silent,  alarmed  at  the  vio- 
lence of  the  feelings  which  Adelaide's  tone  had  awakened  in 
his  heart.     Fully  understanding  the  danger  of  the  situation, 


THE  PURSE.  175 

they  went  down  and  put  the  portrait  in  its  place.  That  day 
Hippolyte  dined  for  the  first  time  with  the  baroness,  who,  in  the 
fullness  of  her  heart,  and  bathed  in  tears,  wanted  to  embrace 
him. 

In  the  evening  the  old  kmigrk,  the  ancient  comrade  of  Baron 
de  Rouville,  paid  his  two  friends  a  visit,  to  inform  them  that  he 
had  just  been  appointed  a  vice  admiral.  His  land  voyages 
across  Germany  and  Russia  had  been  reckoned  as  naval  cam- 
paigns. When  he  caught  sight  of  the  portrait  he  cordially 
grasped  the  hand  of  the  painter,  and  exclaimed,  "  Upon  my 
honor,  although  my  old  carcase  is  hardly  worth  the  trouble  of 
perpetuating,  I  would  gladly  give  500  pistoles  for  so  close  a 
likeness  of  myself  as  this  is  of  my  old  friend  Rouville." 

At  this  suggestion  the  baroness  looked  at  her  old  friend  and 
smiled,  while  her  face  showed  signs  of  rising  gratitude.  Hip- 
polyte fancied  that  the  old  man's  intention  was  to  offer  him 
the  price  of  the  two  portraits  in  paying  for  his  own  ;  not  only 
his  artist's  pride,  but  his  jealousy  also,  was  aroused  by  this  re- 
flection, and  replied,  "  Sir,  if  I  painted  portraits  I  should  not 
have  painted  that." 

The  admiral  bit  his  lips  and  sat  down  at  the  card-table  The 
artist  remained  near  Adelaide,  who  suggested  six  games  at 
piquet  which  he  accepted.  While  he  was  playing  he  noticed 
in  Madame  Rouville  an  eagerness  over  the  game  which  surpri- 
sed him.  Never  had  the  old  baroness  exhibited  so  earnest  a 
desire  to  to  win,  nor  so  keen  a  pleasure  in  handling  the  gentle- 
man's gold.  During  the  evening  Hippolyte's  happiness  was 
invaded  by  suspicions  of  evil  which  caused  him  much  uneasi- 
ness. Did  Madame  de  Rouville  live  by  gambling  ?  Perhaps 
she  was  playing  at  that  moment,  with  a  view  to  the  payment  of 
some  debt,  or  spurred  by  some  pressing  need.  Her  rent  might 
be  unpaid,  perhaps.  The  old  man  seemed  sharp  enough  not 
to  allow  himself  to  be  robbed  of  his  money.  What,  then,  was 
the  inducement  which  drew  him,  rich  as  he  was,  to  that  abode 
cf  poverty  ?    Why  had  he,  who  had  formerly  been  so  free  with 


176  BALZAC. 

Adelaide,  abandoned  the  footing  of  familiarity  on  which  he  had 
stood,  and  which  was  perhaps  his  right  ? 

These  involuntary  reflections  impelled  him  to  scrutinize  the 
old  man  and  the  baroness,  whose  knowing  look  and  certain  side- 
long glances  which  she  cast  at  Adelaide  and  himself  disturbed 
him.  "  Can  they  be  deceiving  me  ?  "  Such  was  Hippolyte's  last, 
horrible,  withering  thought,  which  had  precisely  enough  hold 
upon  him  to  torture  him.  He  resolved  to  remain,  after  the 
two  old  men  had  gone, jn  order  to  confirm  or  dissipate  his  sus- 
picions. On  taking  out  his  purse  to  pay  Adelaide,  he  was 
so  carried  away  by  his  harrowing  thoughts,  that  he  put  it  down 
upon  the  table,  and  fell  into  a  brief  reverie.  Then,  ashamed 
of  being  silent,  he  rose,  replied  to  some  commonplace  inquiry' 
from  Madame  Rouville,  and  went  close  to  her,  in  order  that  he 
might  more  closely  examine  her  aged  features,  while  he  talked. 
When  he  left,  he  was  under  the  influence  of  a  thousand  con- 
flicting ideas.  After  he  had  descended  a  few  of  the  steps  he 
went  back  for  the  purse  which  he  had  forgotten. 

"  I  left  my  purse  with  you,"  he  said  to  the  young  girl. 
"  No,"  she  replied,  blushing. 

"  I  certainly  thought  it  was  there,"  said  he,  pointing  to  the 
card  table. 

Ashamed  for  Adelaide's  sake,  and  that  of  the  baroness,  at 
not  seeing  it,  he  looked  at  them  with  a  stupified  look  which 
made  them  laugh,  turned  pale,  and  then,  tapping  his  waistcoat, 
resumed,  "  I  am  mistaken,  no  doubt  I  have  it." 

In  one  end  of  the  purse  there  had  been  fifteen  louis,  and  in 
the  other  some  small  change.  The  theft  was  so  flagrant, 
and  was  repudiated  with  such  effrontery,  that  Hippolyte  had  no 
further  doubts  as  to  the  morality  of  his  neighbors.  He  stood 
still  upon  the  staircase,  then  descended  it  with  difficulty ;  his 
legs  trembled,  he  felt  giddy,  sweated,  shivered,  and  found  him- 
self unable  to  walk  ;  so  completely  was  he  overcome  by  the  fear- 
ful emotion  caused  by  the  overthrow  of  all  his  hopes.  From 
that  moment  his  memory  brought  back  to  him  a  crowd  of  ,ob- 


THE  PUBSK  177 

servations,  trifling  in  appearance,   but  corroborative   of  his 
frightful  suspicions,  and  decisive  of  the  character  and  mode  of 
life  of  these  two  women,  since  they  established  the  reality  o 
this  last  incident. 

Had  they,  then,  awaited  the  completion  of  the  portrait 
before  stealing  the  purse  ?  As  the  result  of  a  conspiracy  the 
robbery  seemed  more  odious  still.  The  artist  remembered 
to  his  sorrow,  that  for  the  last  two  or  three  evenings  Adelaide 
had  seemed  to  examine  with  all  a  young  girl's  inquisitiveness,the 
network  of  worn  silk,  while  she  was,  probably,  ascertaining  how 
much  the  purse  contained ;  and  that  she  had  indulged  in  some 
jokes,  to  all  appearance  perfectly  innocent,  but  whose  real 
object  was,  no  doubt,  to  cover  her  look-out  for  the  moment 
when  the  sum  should  be  large  enough  to  be  worth  stealing. 

"  The  old  admiral,"  thought  Hippolyte,  "  has  perhaps  some 
excellent  reasons  for  not  marrying  Adelaide,  and  so  the  baroness 
thought  she  would  try  to  inveigle — " 

But  at  this  hypothesis  he  stopped  short  without  even  finish- 
ing his  thought,  which  was  destroyed  by  one  very  just  reflec- 
tion : 

"  If  the  baroness  wanted  me  to  marry  her  daughter,  they 
would  not  have  robbed  me."  Then  in  order  that  he  might 
retain  his  illusions  and  the  love  which  had  become  so  firmly 
rooted  in  his  heart,  he  looked  to  chance  for  a  favorable  inter- 
pretation. "  My  purse  may  have  fallen  on  the  floor,"  he  argued 
with  himself;  "  it  may  have  stuck  on  my  armchair.  Perhaps 
I  have  it  on  me,  I  am  so  absent-minded."  Then  he  rummaged 
his  pockets  with  feverish  movements  ;  but  the  accursed  purse 
was  not  forthcoming.  Then  his  cruel  memory  brought  back 
to  him,  from  time  to  time,  the  fatal  truth.  He  distinctly  saw 
his  purse  lying  on  the  cloth ;  but  though  he  no  longer  doubted 
that  the  robbery  had  been  commited,  he  now  framed  excuses 
for  Adelaide,  saying  that  one  ought  not  to  condemn  the 
unfortunate  so  hastily.  There  must  be  some  .secrect 
explanation  of  this  deed,  which  was,  in  outward  seeming,  so 

L 


178  BALZAC. 

degrading.  He  could  not  bear  to  think  that  that  proud  and 
noble  countenance  was — a  lie.  But,  now  the  poverty-stricken 
apartments  appeared  before  him,  shorn  of  all  the  poetry  of  that 
love  which  beautifies  everything.  Faded  and  squalid  they  rose 
before  him,  and  he  regarded  them  as  the  outward  covering  of 
an  inner  life  that  was  ignoble,  idle,  vicious.  For  are  not  our. 
feelings  written  on  the  things  by  which  we  are  surrounded  ?      [ 

The  next  morning  he  rose  without  having  slept.  Sorrow  of 
heart,  that  serious  moral  malady,  had  made  rapid  progress  in 
him.  To  lose  a  joy  that  has  formed  the  subject  of  our  dreams, 
to  renounce  a  whole  future,  is  anguish  more  accute  than  that 
caused  by  the  destruction  of  happiness,  however  great,  that 
has  been  actually  enjoyed ;  for  is  not  hope  better  than  re- 
collection ?  The  reflections  which  suddenly  arise  out  of  such 
ruin  are  like  a  shoreless  sea ;  we  may  for  a  time  swim  upon  its 
bosom,  but  in  the  end  our  love  must  drown  and  perish.  And 
it  is  a  fearful  death  ;  for  the  feelings  are  the  brightest  portion 
of  our  existence.  This  partial  death  produces  in  certain  organ- 
izations, whether  they  be  strong  or  delicate,  fearful  havoc,  the 
offspring  of  disenchantment,  of  defeated  hope  and  cheated  pas.; 
sion.  Thus  was  it  with  the  young  artist.  Early  in  the  morning 
he  went  out  to  take  a  walk  under  the  fresh  foliage  of  the  gardens 
of  the  Tuileries.  There,  engrossed  in  thought  and  oblivious  of 
all  the  world  contained,  he  stumbled  on  one  of  his  most  inti- 
mate friends,  an  old  comrade  at  school  and  in  the  studio,  with 
whom  he  had  lived  on  a  footing  of  more  than  fraternal  affection. 

"  Why,  Hippolyte,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? "  said  his 
friend,  Francois  Souched,  a  young  sculptor,  who  had  just  gain- 
ed the  grand  prize,  and  was  on  the  wing  for  Italy. 

"  I  am  most  unhappy,"  said  Hippolyte  gravely. 

"  It  can  only  be  a  love-affair  that  can  cause  you  any  trouble. 
As  for  money,  fame,  and  social  esteem — you  have  them  all." 

Thereupon  the  confidences  gradually  commenced,  and  the 
artist  confessed  his  passion.     As  soon  as  he  began  to  talk  nbout 


THE  PURSE.  179 

the  Rue  de  Suresnes,  and  of  a  young  woman  who  lived  upon  a 
fourth  storey,  Souchet  gaily  exclaimed, — 

"  Stop  one  moment ;  you  are  speaking  of  a  little  girl  whom 
I  go  to  the  church  of  the  Assumption  every  morning  to  see, 
and  to  whom  I  am  making  advances.  Why,  my  dear  fellow, 
we  all  know  her.  Her  mother  is  a  baroness.  Do  you  believe 
in  baronesses  who  live  upon  fourth  storeys?  Brrr —  Why 
you  are  a  man  of  the  golden  age.  We  see  the  old  mother 
here,  in  this  walk,  every  day ;  why  she  has  a  face  and  a  way 
of  carrying  herself  that  betray  everything.  What,  haven't  you 
discovered  what  she  is,  from  the  way  in  which  she  carries  her 
bag?" 

The  two  friends  walked  together  for  a  long  time,  and  several 
young  men,  who  knew  Souchet  or  Schinner,  joined  them.  The 
sculptor,  who  attached  no  great  importance  to  his  friend's 
adventure,  related  it  to  the  rest. 

"Our  friend  also,"  said  he,  "has  seen  the  little  girl." 

Then  there  followed  observations,  laughter,  harmless  jokes, 
full  of  the  gaiety  habitual  to  artists,  which  inflicted  terrible 
agonies  upon  Hippolyte.  A  certain  ingrained  modesty  ren- 
dered him  ill  at  ease  when  he  saw  his  heart's  secret  thus 
lightly  treated,  his  passion  torn  to  rags  and  tatters,  and  an  un- 
known girl,  whose  life  appeared  so  modest,  subjected  to  judg- 
ments, true  or  false,  pronounced  with  so  much  indifference. 

"  But,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Souchett,  "  have  you  seen  the 
baroness's  shawl?" 

"  Have  you  followed  the  little  giil  when  she  trots  to  the 
Assumption  in  the  morning?"  asked  Joseph  Bridau,  a  young 
tyro  from  the  studio  of  Gros. 

"  Yes,  the  mother  possesses,  among  other  virtues,  a  certain 
grey  dress,  which  I  regard  as  typical,"  said  Bixiou,  the  carica- 
turist. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Hippolyte,"  pursued  the  sculptor,  "  come 
here  about  four  o'clock  and  analyze  the  walk  of  the  mother 
and  daughter  a  little.     If,  after  that,  you  retain  any  doubts 


180  BALZAC. 

why,  we  shall  never  make  anything  of  you ;  you  will  be  capa 
ble  of  marrying  the  daughter  of  your  porteress." 

Torn  by  the  most  conflicting  feelings,  the  painter  quitted  his 
friends.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Adelaide  and  her  mother 
must  be  above  such  accusations,  and  he  felt  remorse  in  the 
depths  of  his  heart  for  having  had  any  doubts  about  the  purity 
of  this  young  girl,  who  was  so  beautiful  and  simple.  lie  went 
to  his  studio,  passed  the  door  of  the  rooms  where  Adelaide 
was,  and  felt  in  his  heart  a  pang  such  as  no  man  can  fail  to 
understand.  He  loved  Mademoiselle  de  Rouville  so  passion- 
ately, that  in  spite  of  the  stolen  purse  he  adored  her  still.  His 
love  was  that  of  the  Chevalier  des  Grieux,  admiring  and 
purifying  his  mistress  even  when  she  was  in  the  van  that  was 
carrying  the  abandoned  women  to  jail.  "  Why  should  not  my 
love  make  her  the  purest  of  women  ?  Why  leave  her  to  vice 
and  evil  without  extending  to  her  a  friendly  hand  ?"  Such  a 
mission  pleased  him.  Love  turns  everything  to  its  own 
account.  Nothing  is  so  seductive  to  a  young  man  as  to  play 
the  part  of  good  genius  to  a  woman. 

There  is  a  vague  romance  about  such  an  enterprise  which 
suits  exalted  minds.  Is  it  not  the  most  uniimited  devotion  in 
its  highest  and  most  graceful  form  ?  Is  there  not  a  certain 
grandeur  in  the  thought  that  one  loves  so  well  as  to  love  even 
under  circumstances  which  kill  the  love  of  others  ?  Hippolyte 
sat  down  in  his  studio  and  looked  at  his  picture  without  doing 
anything  to  it.  He  saw  the  figures  in  it  only  through  the 
tears  which  stood  in  his  eyes;  then  with  his  brush  still  in  his 
hand,  he  went  up  to  the  picture  as  if  to  tone  down  one  of  its 
tints,  but  did  not  touch  it.  Night  came  and  found  him  still  in 
the  same  attitude. 

Roused  from  his  reverie  by  the  increasing  darkness,  he  went 
down  stairs,  met  the  old  admiral  on  the  staircase,  darted  one 
sombre  glance  at  him,  and  rushed  away.  It  had  been  his 
intention  to  pay  his  neighbors  a  visit,  but  the  sight  of  Ade- 

ide's  protector  froze  his  heart  and  banished  his  resolution. 


THE   PURSE.  181 

He  asked  himself,  for  the  hundredth  time,  what  motive  could 
induce  the  succersful  old  rou^,  who  had  an  income  of  80,000 
francs,  to  visit  this  fourth  floor  lodgirg,  where  he  lost  about 
forty  francs  every  evening.  He  believed  he  knew  the  motive. 
The  next  day  and  the  succeeding  days,  Hippolyte  plunged, 
into  work,  in  the  endeavor  to  combat  his  passion  by  the 
seductive  strength  of  ideas  and  the  fire  of  conception.  Het 
half  succeeded.  Study  comforted  him,  but  it  could  not  drown 
the  recollection  of  so  many  happy  hours  passed  by  the  side 
of  Adelaide.  One  evening,  on  leaving  his  studio,  he  saw  the 
door  of  the  ladies*  lodging  half  open.  Some  one  was  standing 
in  the  embrasure  of  the  window.  The  arrangement  of  the 
door  and  staircase  was  such  that  the  painter  could  not  pass 
without  seeing  Adelaide.  He  bowed  to  her  distantly,  and  cast 
at  her  a  glance  of  complete  indifference ;  but  judging  of  the 
young  girl's  sufferings  by  his  own,  he  felt  an  internal  tremor 
as  he  thought  of  the  bitterness  which  that  look  and  that  cold 
greeting  might  infuse  into  a  loving  heart.  To  crown  the  sweet- 
est festivals  that  ever  made  the  happiness  of  two  pure  hearts, 
with  eight  days  of  neglect  and  with  the  deepest  and  most 
thorough  scorn — was  not  that  a  hideous  denouement  /  Perhaps 
the  purse  had  been  recovered;  perhaps  every  evening  Adelaide 
had  been  looking  for  her  friend's  arrival.  This  very  natural 
and  simple  thought  filled  the  lover  with  fresh  remorse.  He 
asked  himself  whether  the  proofs  of  attachment  which  the 
young  girl  had  afforded  him,  and  their  enchanting  little  talks, 
instinct  with  the  love  which  had  bewitched  him,  did  not  at 
least  demand  that  he  should  make  some  inquiry  and  give  a 
chance  for  some  justification.  Ashamed  of  having  resisted  for 
a  whole  week  the  wishes  of  his  heart,  and  looking  on  himself 
as  almost  a  criminal  for  having  combatted  them,  he  went  that 
very  evening  to  Madame  Rouville's.  At  sight  of  the  young 
girl's  pale  thin  face,  all  his  suspicions  and  evil  thoughts  took 
flight 


182  BALZAC. 

"  Good  God,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  he  asked,  after 
having  paid  his  respects  to  the  baroness. 

Adelaide  made  no  reply,  but  looked  at  him  with  a  melan- 
choly, wan,  dejected  look,  which  pained  him. 

"  You  have  doubtless  been  very  hard  at  work,"  said  the  old 
lady;  "  you  are  changed.  We  are  the  cause  of  your  seclusion. 
That  portrait  has  thrown  you  back  with  some  pictures  of  im- 
portance to  your  reputation." 

Hippolyte  was  glad  to  find  so  good  an  excuse  for  his  want 
of  attention. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  have  been  very  busy,  but  I  have  suf- 
fered—" 

At  these  words  Adelaide  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  her 
lover.     Her  anxious  eyes  had  no  reproach  in  them. 

"  You  must  have  supposed,  then,  that  we  were  very  indiffer- 
ent as  to  your  good  or  evil  fortune,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"  I  was  wrong,"  he  continued.  "  But  nevertheless,  there 
are  troubles  which  we  cannot  confide  to  any  one,  not  even 
to  friends  of  older  standing  than  I  have  the  honor  to  possess 
in  you." 

"  The  sincerity  and  strength  of  friendship  cannot  be  gauged 
by  the  duration  of  time.  I  have  seen  very  old  friends  bestow 
not  a  tear  upon  each  other's  misfortunes,"  said  the  baroness 
nodding  her  head. 

"  But  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?"  said  the  young  man, 
addressing  himself  to  Adelaide. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  replied  the  baroness,  "  Adelaide  has  sat  up 
for  several  nights  in  order  to  finish  a  bit  of  feminine  handi- 
craft, and  would  not  listen  to  me  when  I  told  her  that  a  day 
sooner  or  later  was  of  little  consequence    .     .     ,     ." 

Hippolyte  did  not  listen  any  further.  As  he  looked  at  those 
two  calm  and  noble  faces,  he  blushed  at  his  suspicions,  and 
attributed  the  loss  of  his  purse  to  some  unknown  chance. 
That  evening  was  delightful  to  him  and  perhaps  also  to  her. 


THE   PURSE.  183 

There  are  certain  secrets  which  young  hearts  understand  so 
well ! 

Adelaide  guessed  what  was  passing  in  Hippolyte's  mind. 

Without  wishing  to  avow  his  fault,  the  artist  recognized  it; 
he  returned  to  his  mistress  more  loving,  more  affectionate 
than  before,  and  thus  endeavored  to  purchase  an  unspoken 
pardon. 

Adelaide  now  experienced  joy  so  perfect  and  so  sweet  that 
it  did  not  seem  too  dearly  bought  by  all  the  misfortune  which 
had  so  cruelly  disturbed  her  mind.  But  tfiis  concord  of  their 
hearts,  this  magic  unison,  was  nevertheless  disturbed  by  a  few 
words  from  the  Baroness  de  Rouville. 

"Are  we  going  to  have  our  little  card-party?"  said  she, 
"  for  my  old  Kergarouet  is  relentless." 

This  phrase  reawakened  all  the  young  painter's  fears.  He 
colored  as  he  looked  at  Adelaide's  mother,  but  he  saw  nothing 
in  her  features  save  an  expression  of  frank  good-nature  j  there 
was  no  artiere-pens'ee  to  destroy  its  charm,  no  trace  of  bad 
faith  in  its  intelligence ;  the  mischief  that  played  in  it  was  a 
gentle  mischief,  there  was  not  a  trace  of  remorse  to  disturb  its 
calm. 

He  proceeded  to  take  his  seat  at  the  table.  Adelaide  re- 
solved to  share  his  luck,  pretending  that  he  did  not  understand 
piquet,  and  required  a  partner.  While  the  game  went  on 
Madame  de  Rouville  and  her  daughter  exchanged  signs  of 
ntelligence  which  caused  Hippolyte  all  the  more  uneasiness  in 
that  he  was  winning  ;  but  at  the  end  of  the  match  a  final  stroke 
made  the  lovers  debtors  to  the  baroness.  The  artist  had  no 
sooner  removed  his  hands  from  the  table  in  order  to  search  in 
his  pocket  for  some  silver,  than  he  saw  before  him  a  purse 
which  Adelaide  had  slipped  there  unperceived.  The  poor  girl 
was  holding  the  old  purse  in  her  hand,  and  for  the  sake  of 
keeping  her  countenance,  was  looking  in  it  for  some  money  to 
pay  her  mother  with.     All  the  blood  in  Hippolyte's  body  rushed 


184  BALZAC. 

to  his  heart  so  swiftly  that  he  ahnost  fainted.  The  new  purse 
which  had  been  substituted  for  the  old  one,  and  contained  his 
fifteen  louis  was  worked  with  gold  beads.  Rings,  tassels,  and 
all  bore  witness  to  the  good  taste  of  Adelaide,  who  had  doubt- 
lessly exhausted  her  pocket-money  in  buying  the  ornaments 
which  decked  her  pretty  piece  of  work.  It  was  impossible  to 
express  with  greater  subtlety  the  feeling  that  the  gift  of  the 
portrait  could  be  acknowledged  only  by  some  token  of  regard. 
When  Hippolyte,  overwhelmed  with  joy,  turned  his  eyes  towards 
Adelaide  and  the  baroness,  he  saw  them  trembling  with  delight, 
and  rejoicing  in  their  amiable  fraud.  He  considered  himself 
petty,  mean,  and  stupid ;  he  could  have  wished  to  punish  him- 
self, to  tear  his  heart  out.  Tears  rushed  to  his  eyes ;  impelled 
by  some  irresistable  force,  he  rose,  he  took  Adelaide  in  his 
arms,  strained  her  to  his  heart,  and  snatched  a  kiss  from  her  : 
then,  with  all  an  artist's  straightforwardness,  he  turned  to 
the  baroness,  and  exclaimed,  "  I  claim  her  from  you  for  my 
wife." 

Adelaide  looked  at  the  painter  half  :indignantly,  and  Madame 
de  Rouville,  somewhat  astonished,  was  seeking  for  a  reply, 
when  the  scene  was  interrupted  by  the  ringing  of  the  bell.  The 
old  vice-admiral  appeared,  followed  by  his  shadow  and  Madame 
Schinner,  Having  guessed  the  origin  of  the  grief  which  her 
son  vainly  attempted  to  conceal  from  her,  Hippolyte's  mother 
had  gathered,  from  some  of  her  friends,  certain  information 
about  Adelaide.  Justly  alarmed  at  the  calumnies  which, 
unknown  to  the  Comte  de  Kergarouet,  attached  to  the  young- 
lady,  Madame  Schinner  learned  the  count's  name  from  the 
porteress,  and  went  and  told  him  what  she  had  heard.  He,  in 
his  wrath,  would  have  liked  "  to  cut  the  scoundrels'  ears  off," 
as  he  phrased  it.  Fired  by  his  indignation,  the  admiral  had 
told  Madame  Schinner  the  secret  of  his  voluntary  losses  at  the 
card-table — the  pride  of  the  baroness  leaving  him  no  other 
than  his  ingenious  method  of  helping  her. 

When   Madame  Schinner  had  paid  her  respects  to  the 


THE   PURSE. 


185 


baroness,  the  latter,  looking  at  the  Comte  de  Kergarouet,  the 
Chevalier  du  Halga  (the  former  friend  of  the  late  Comlesse  de 
Kargarouet),  Hippolyte,  and  Adelaide,  said  with  that  grace 
which  has  its  source  in  a  good  heart,  "  It  seems  that  we  are 
quite  a  family  party  this  evening." 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX. 

(Le  Bal  de  Sceaux.) 

To  Henri  de  Balzac 

His  Brother,  HonorA. 

The  Count  de  Fontaine,  the  head  of  one  of  the  most  ancient 
families  of  Le  Poitou,  had  devoted  himself  to  the  cause  of  the 
Bourbons  with  intelligence  and  courage  during  the  war  which 
the  inhabitants  of  La  Vendee  carried  on  against  the  Republic. 
After  having  escaped  all  the  dangers  which  threatened  the 
royalist  leaders  during  that  stormy  period  of  contemporary 
history,  he  used  jokingly  to  say,  "  I  am  one  of  those  who  were 
killed  upon  the  steps  of  the  throne." 

This  witticism  was  not  without  some  foundation  in  fact,  in 
the  case  of  a  man  who  had  been  left  for  dead  on  the  bloody 
field  of  Quatre-Chemins. 

Although  the  faithful  Vendean  had  been  ruined  by  the  con- 
fiscations which  took  place,  he  continually  refused  the  lucrative 
posts  offered  to  him  by  the  Emperor  Napoleon.     Staunch  in 
his  aristocratic  convictions,  he  had  blindly  followed  the  maxims 
of  his  creed  in  the  choice  of  a  mate.     In  spite  of  the  seduc- 
tions to  which  he  was  exposed  by  a  wealthy  paivenu  of  the 
revolution,  who  set  a  high  value  on  an  alliance  with  him,  the 
Count  de  Fontaine  married  a  De  Kergaroiit,  a  young  lady 
without  fortune,  but  belonging  to  one  of  the  best  families  in 
Britta.ny.     When   overtaken   by  the  revolution.  Monsieur  de 
Fontaine  had  a  numerous  family.     Although  it  did  not  accord 
with  the  ideas  of  this  generous  nobleman  to  solicit   favors,  he 
yielded  to  his  wife's  desires,  left  his  estate,  (the  rents  of  which  • 
were  hardly  sufficient  to  supply  the  wants  of  his  children)  and 
came  to  Paris.     Grieved  at  the  avidity  with  which  his  ancient 


188  BALZAC 

comrades  hunted  after  the  posts  and  dignities  at  the  disposal 
of  the  constitutional  government,  he  was  on  the  point  of  return 
ing  to  his  estate,  when  he  received  an  official  communication 
from  a  well-known  minister,  announcing  his  nomination  to  the 
grade  of  camp-marshal,  in  pursuance  of  the  ordinance  which 
gave  permission  to  the  officers  of  the  catholic  armies  to  reckon 
the  first  twenty  years  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XVIII.  as  years  of 
service.  Some  days  later  the  Vendean  also  received,  without 
any  solicitation  on  his  part,  and  officially,  the  cross  of  the  order 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor  and  the  cross  of  St.  Louis. 

Shaken  in  his  resolution  by  these  successive  marks  of  favor, 
for  which  he  considered  himself  indebted  to  the  memory  of 
his  sovereign,  he  no  longer  confined  himself  to  conducting  his 
family,  as  he  had  been  wont  to  do,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  to 
the  Salle  des  Mar^chaux  at  the  Tuileries,  to  cry  Vive  le  Roi  as 
the  princes  went  to  chapel;  he  requested  the  favor  of  a  private 
audience.  This  audience,  which  was  very  readily  obtained, 
had  nothing  private  about  it  whatever.  The  royal  reception- 
room  was  crammed  with  old  servitors,  whose  powdered  heads, 
seen  from  a  certain  elevation,  locked  like  a  carpet  of  snow. 
There  the  nobleman  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  some  of 
his  old  companions,  who  received  him  somewhat  coldly ;  but 
the  princes  were  adorable,  to  use  the  enthusiastic  expression 
which  escaped  him  when  the  most  gracious  of  his  masters,  who, 
the  count  imagined,  knew  him  only  by  name,  came  up  and 
shook  him  by  the  hand,  calling  him  the  purest  of  the  Ven- 
deans. 

In  spite  of  this  ovation,  however,  it  did  not  occur  to  any  of 
these  august  personages  to  ask  him  for  an  account  of  his  losses, 
or  of  the  money  which  he  had  so  generously  poured  into  the 
coffers  of  the  catholic  army.  He  discovered,  somewhat  late, 
that  he  had  fought  at  his  own  expense.  Towards  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  evening,  he  thought  he  might  venture  to  make  a 
witty  allusion  to  the  condition  of  his  finances,  which  was  very 
similar  to  that  of  many  another  nobleman.     His  Majesty  began 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  189 

to  laugh  very  heartily,  for  he  took  a  pleasure  in  any  well-turned 
phrase,  but  he  nevertheless  replied  by  one  of  those  royal 
pleasantries  whose  mildness  is  more  formidable  than  an  angry 
reprimand.  One  of  the  most  intimate  confidants  of  the  king 
very  soon  drew  near  to  the  calculating  Vendean,  and  in  a  well- 
turned  and  polished  phrase,  gave  him  to  understand,  that  it 
was  premature  for  him  to  come  to  a  reckoning  with  his  masters; 
that  accounts  of  much  older  standing  were  under  considera- 
tion, accounts  which  would  doubtless  furnish  matter  for  a 
history  of  the  revolution.  The  count  beat  a  prudent  retreat 
from  the  venerable  group,  which  described  a  respectful  semi- 
circle in  front  of  the  august  family ;  then,  after  having,  not 
without  some  difficulty,  disengaged  his  sword  from  the  attenu- 
ated shanks  among  which  it  was  entangled,  he  crossed  the 
court  of  the  Tuileries  on  foot  and  regained  the  hackney-coach 
which  he  had  left  upon  the  quay.  Endowed  with  that  stubborn 
spirit  which  characterizes  the  old  nobiHty,  who  still  retain  a 
recollection  of  the  League  and  the  Barricades,  he  complained 
to  himself  in  the  hackney-coach  loudly,  and  in  a  manner  that 
might  have  compromised  him,  about  the  change  that  had  taken 
place  at  court.  "  Formerly,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  every  one 
used  to  speak  freely  about  his  little  private  affairs  to  the  king ; 
noblemen  did  not  hesitate  to  ask  him  for  favors  and  for  money, 
and  now  to-day  there  is  a  difficulty  in  obtaining  repayment  of 
sums  disbursed  in  the  king's  service.  Zounds !  the  cross  of 
St.  Louis  and  the  rank  of  camp-marshal  are  not  worth  the 
three  hundred  thousand  francs  which  I  put  down  in  good  hard 
cash  in  the  royal  service.  I  shall  speak  to  the  king  to  his  face 
in  his  own  apartment." 

The  scene  that  had  taken  place  cooled  the  zeal  of  M.  de 
Fontaine  all  the  more,  in  that  his  applications  for  an  audience 
always  remained  unanswered.  He  saw,  moreover,  the  upstarts 
of  the  empire  obtaining  some  of  those  posts  which  under  the 
ancient  monarchy  had  been  set  apart  for  the  best  families. 

"  All  is  lost,"  said  he  one  morning,     "  It  is  clear  that  the 


190  BALZAC. 

king  was  never  anything  but  a  revolutionist.  If  it  were  not 
for  the  king's  brother,  who  does  not  throw  over  old  customs, 
and  consoles  his  faithful  servants,  I  know  not  into  what  hands 
the  sceptre  of  France  might  pass,  if  this  r<^/>;/^  should  continue. 
Their  damned  constitutional  system  is  the  worst  of  all  forms 
of  government,  and  will  never  suit  France.  Louis  XVIII.  and 
M.  Beugnot  spoiled  everything  at  Saint  Ouen." 

The  count  abandoned  himself  to  despair  and  prepared  lo 
return  to  his  estate,  with  the  noble  determination  to  waive  all 
claim  to  indemnity.  Just  at  that  time  the  events  of  March  20, 
1815,  showed  that  a  fresh  storm  was  brewing,  which  threatened 
to  engulf  the  legitimate  sovereign  and  his  defenders.  Monsieur 
de  Fontaine  acted  like  those  generous  people  who  will  not  send 
away  a  servant  while  it  rains.  He  mortgaged  his  property  to 
follow  the  routed  monarchy,  without  knowing  whether  this 
partaking  in  the  emigiation  would  be  more  propitious  to  him 
than  his  former  self-sacrifice.  But  since  he  had  noticed  that 
the  companions  of  the  sovereign's  exile  were  held  in  more  favor 
than  the  brave  men  who  had  formerly  protested  against  the 
establishment  of  the  Republic  with  arms  m  their  hands,  it  may 
be  that  M.  de  Fontaine  hoped  to  find  his  sojourn  in  a  foreign 
land  more  profitable  than  active  and  dangerous  service  at 
home,  The  calculations  of  the  courtier  were  not  like  those 
idle  enterprises  which  on  paper  promise  superb  results,  and 
ruin  those  who  attempt  the  execution  of  them.  He  therefore 
was,  in  the  witty  language  of  the  most  brilliant  and  most  skilful 
of  our  diplomatists,  one  of  the  five  hundred  faithful  servants 
who  shaied  the  exile  of  the  Court  at  Ghent,  and  one  of  the  fifty 
thousand  who  returned  from  it  During  this  short  absence  o 
royalty,  M.  de  Fontaine  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  employed 
by  Louis  XVIII.,  and  found  more  than  one  opportunity  for 
affording  the  king  proofs  of  great  political  integrity  and  sincere 
attachment.  One  evening  when  the  monarch  had  nothing 
better  to  do,  he  called  to  mmd  the  bon-mot  which  Monsieur  de 
Fontame  had  mdulged  in  at  the  Tuileries.     The  old  Vendean 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  191 

did  not  permit  so  favorable  an  opportunity  to  remain  unim- 
proved, and  told  his  story  with  so  much  wit  that  the  king, 
whose  memory  was  most  tenacious,  called  it  to  mind  as 
occasion  served.  The  august  man  of  letters  observed  the 
happy  turn  to  certain  memoranda,  the  editing  which  had  been 
entrusted  to  the  discreet  nobleman.  This  little  merit  caused 
Monsieur  de  Fontaine  to  be  engraved  in  the  king's  memory  as 
one  of  the  most  loyal  servants  of  the  crown.  On  the  second 
return  of  the  Bourbons,  the  count  was  one  of  the  envoys  extra- 
ordinary who  were  commissioned  to  travel  through  the  depart- 
ments, and  summarily  judge  the  fomentors  of  the  rebellion; 
but  he  exercised  his  terrible  powers  with  moderation.  As  soon 
as  this  temporary  jurisdiction  had  come  to  an  end,  the  grand 
provost  took  his  seat  among  the  Councillors  of  State,  was 
elected  deputy,  spoke  little,  listened  a  great  deal,  and  con- 
siderably altered  his  political  views.  Certain  circumstances, 
of  which  biography  knows  nothing,  made  him  so  intimate  with 
the  king,  that  on  one  day,  on  seeing  him  come  in,  the  crafty 
monarch  called  out  to  him,  "  Friend  Fontaine,  I  shall  not 
take  it  into  my  head  to  make  you  a  director-general  or  a 
minister.  Both  you  and  I,  if  we  were  government  clerks, 
should  lose  our  places  on  account  of  our  opinions." 

"  It  may  be  said  in  favor  of  representative  government,  that 
it  saves  us  the  trouble  formerly  imposed  on  us  of  dismissing  in 
person  our  secretaries  of  state.  Our  council  is  a  regular  hotel 
to  which  public  opinion  very  often  sends  strange  travellers ;  but 
nevertheless  we  shall  always  be  able  to  find  a  place  for  our 
faithful  servants."  This  ironical  exordium  was  followed  by  an 
ordinance  giving  to.  M.  de  Fontaine  an  office  attached  to  the 
crown  demesne  extraordinary.  In  consequence  of  the  intelli- 
gent attention  with  which  he  listened  to  the  sarcasms  of  his 
royal  friend,  his  name  was  found  on  his  Majesty's  lips  when- 
ever a  commission  was  to  be  appointed  the  members  of  which 
were  to  be  well  paid.  He  had  the  good  sense  to  say  nothing 
about  the  favor  with  which  the  king  regarded  him,  and  man- 


192    '  BALZAC. 

aged  to  cultivate  it  by  the  piquant  manner  in  which,  during  the 
course  of  one  of  those  familiar  chats  in  which  Louis  XVIII. 
took  as  much  delight  as  in  well-turned  notes,  he  related  the 
political  anecdotes  and,  if  the  expression  may  be  allowed  to 
pass,  the  cancans,  diplomatic  or  parliamentary,  which,  at  that 
time,  were  so  rife.  It  is  well  known  that  the  details  of  his 
governmentability,  a  word  adopted  by  the  august  jeerer,  afforded 
him  infinite  amusement.  Thanks  to  the  good  sense,  the  intel- 
ligence, and  the  skill  of  Monsieur  de  Fontaine,  every  member 
of  his  numerous  family,  no  matter  how  young,  ended  as  the 
count  jocularly  expressed  it  to  his  master,  by  settling  himself 
on  the  leaves  of  the  budget  like  a  silk-worm.  Thus  the  eldest 
son,  through  the  king's  favor,  obtained  an  eminent  position 
among  the  permanent  judges ;  the  second,  who  was  a  simple 
captain  before  the  Restoration,  obtained  a  company  imme- 
diately after  his  return  from  Ghent.  Then,  under  cover  of  the 
excitement  of  the  year  1815,  during  which  regulations  were  set 
at  nought,  he  was  appointed  to  the  Royal  Guard,  then  again  to 
the  Body  Guard,  and  ultimately  found  himself,  after  the  affair 
of  the  Trocadero,  a  lieutenant-general  with  a  command  in  the 
Guard.  The  youngest  son,  who  was  originally  appointed  sub. 
prefect,  very  shortly  became  Master  of  the  Requests  and  dir- 
ector of  a  municipal  administration  of  the  city  of  Paris,  a  post 
in  which  he  was  not  exposed  to  the  tempests  which  affected 
the  legislature.  These  quiet  favors,  which  were  as  secret  as 
those  conferred  upon  the  count  himself,  were  showered  down 
unperceived.  Although  the  father  and  his  three  sons  had,  each 
of  them  enough  sinecures  to  produce  a  revenue  almost  as  con- 
siderable as  that  of  a  director-general,  their  political  emolu- 
ments excited  the  envy  of  no  one.  In  these  early  days  of  the 
constitutional  system,  few  persons  had  accurate  notions  about 
the  peaceful  regions  of  the  budget,  in  which  skillful  favorites 
managed  to  find  equivalents  for  the  Abbeys  which  had  been 
swept  away.  Monsieur  de  Fontaine,  who  used  formerly  to 
boast  that  he  had  not  read  the  Charte,  and  displayed  so  mucli 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  193 

indignation  at  the  greed  of  the  courtiers,  hastened  to  prove  to 
his  august  master  that  he  understood  as  well  as  that  master, 
the  spirit  and  the  resources  of  representative  government. 
However,  notwithstanding  the  stability  of  the  careers  in  which 
his  three  sons  had  been  launched,  and  the  pecuniary  advan- 
tages arising  from  the  simultaneous  tenure  of  four  offices,  M. 
de  Fontaine's  family  v/as  too  numerous  to  allow  him  to  re-es- 
tablish his  fortune  with  promptitude  and  ease.  His  three  sons 
were  rich  in  prospects,  in  favor,  and  in  ability ;  but  he  had 
three  daughters,  and  he  was  afraid  of  wearying  the  king's 
bounty.  He  determined  only  to  mention  one  of  these  virgins, 
eager  to  kindle  the  h3'meneal  torch.  The  king  had  too  much 
good  taste  to  leave  his  work  half  done  ;  and  the  marriage  of 
the  eldest  daughter  with  a  receiver-general,  De  Baudry,  was 
brought  about  by  one  of  those  royal  phrases  which  cost  nothing 
.  nd  are  worth  millions.  One  evening  when  the  monarch  was 
»  little  sulky,  he  learned,  with  a  smile,  of  the  existence  of 
another  Demoiselle  de  Fontaine.  Her  he  matched  with  a 
youi"g  magistrate,  of  middle-class  origin,  it  is  true,  but  rich  and 
very  clever.  The  king  also  made  him  a  baron.  When  during 
the  next  year  the  Vendean  mentioned  the  name  of  Mademoi- 
selle Emilie  de  Fontaine,  the  king  replied  in  his  squeaky  little 
voice, — 

"  Amicus  Plato  sed  magis  amica  natio." 

Then  some  days  afterwards  he  treated  his  Friend  Fontaine 
to  a  very  mild  quatrain,  which  he  called  an  epigram,  wherein 
he  joked  M.  de  Fontaine  about  his  three  daughters  so  skilfully 
brought  forward  in  the  form  of  a  Trinity.  If  we  are  to  listen 
to  the  chronicle,  it  would  seem  that  the  monarch  had  sought 
the  point  of  his  joke  in  the  unity  of  the  three  divine  persons. 

"  If  the  king  would  condescend  to  convert  his  epigram  into 
an  epithalam  ?"  said  the  count,  endeavoring  to  turn  the  freak 
to  his  own  advantage. 

"  If  I  can  see  the  rhyme,  I  don't  see  the  reason  of  what  you 

M 


194  BALZAC. 

say,"  answered  the  king  brusquely ;  for  he  did  not  relish  the 
joke  about  his  poetry,  lenient  as  it  was. 

From  that  day  forward  his  intercourse  with  M.  de  Fontaine 
was  not  so  agreeable  as  it  had  been.     Kings  like  contradiction 
better  than  is  generally  supposed.     Like  the  youngest  :hild  of 
almost  every  family,  Emilie  de  Fontaine  was  a  Benjamin  whom 
everybody  spoiled.     The  king's  coldness,  therefore,  caused  the 
count  all  the  more  concern  because  there  never  was  a  marriage 
more  difficult  to  bring  about  than  that  of  this  petted  daughter. 
In  order  to  understand  all  these  difficulties  we  must  enter  the 
precincts  of  the  splendid  mansion  in  which  the  commissioner 
was  lodged  at  the   expense   of  the   Civil   List.     Emilie  had 
passed  her  childhood  on  the  De  Fontaine  estate,  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  that  abundance  which  suffices  to  render  youth  happy 
There  her  slightest  wishes  were  law  to  her  sister  and  brothers, 
to  her  mother  and  father.     All  her  relatives  doated  on  her. 
She  reached  years  of  discretion  at  the  very  moment  when  for- 
tune was  showering  its  favors  upon  her  family,  so  that  the 
enchantment  of  her  existence  continued.     The  luxury  of  Paris 
seemed  to  her  quite  as  natural  as  that  provincial   affluence 
which  had  conferred  enjoyment  on  her  childhood.     Just  is 
her  will  had  never  been  thwarted  during  her  infancy,  when  she 
wanted  to  follow  her  joyous  inspirations,  so  she  still  found 
others  give  way  to  her,  when  at  the  age  of  fourteen  she  was 
launched  into  the  whirlpool  of  society.     Having  been  thus 
gradually  introduced  to  the  pleasures  which  wealth  affords,  she 
found  the  elegant  toilette,  the  gilded  saloon,  the  well-appointed 
carriage,  as  necessary  to  her  as  the  compliments,  more  or  less 
sincere,  of  the  flatterer,  and  the  fetes  and  frivolities  of  court 
life.     Like  most  spoiled  children,  she  tyranized  over  those  who 
loved  her,  and  kept  her  seductions  for  the  indifferent.     Her 
defects  grew  with  her  growth,  and  the  time  soon  came  when 
her  parents  were  to  reap  the  fruits  of  her  fatal  education.     At 
the  age  of  nineteen  ;^milie  de  Fontaine  had  not  yet  made 
choice  among  the  many  young  men  whom  the  policy  of  M.  de 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  195 

Fontaine  brought  to  his  entertainments.  AUhough  she  was 
so  young,  she  was  as  completely  self-composed  as  a  woman  can 
be.  Her  lovelin-^ss  was  so  remarkable,  that  tor  her  to  appear 
in  a  drawing  room  was  to  reign  there  :  but,  like  kings,  she  had 
no  friends,  for  she  found  herself  in  all  places  the  object  of  a 
complaisance  before  which,  perhaps,  even  a  better  disposition 
than  hers  would  have  given  way.  No  man,  not  even  an  old 
one,  had  courage  enough  to  contradict  the  opinions  of  a  young 
girl,  one  look  from  whom  was  sufficient  to  rekindle  passion  in 
the  coldest  heart.  Having  been  educated  with  a  care  that  had 
not  been  bestowed  upon  her  sisters,  she  could  paint  fairly,  she 
spoke  Italian  and  English,  she  played  upon  the  piano  admir- 
ably ;  and  then  her  voice,  trained  by  the  best  masters,  had  a 
certain  timbre  which  made  her  singing  irresistibly  seductive. 
She  vras  so  quick,  and  so  well  read  in  every  branch  of  litera- 
ture, that  she  might  well,  in  the  words  of  Mascarille,  induce 
one  to  suppose  that  people  of  quality  know  everything  when 
they  come  into  the  world.  She  could  readily  talk  about  the 
Italian  and  the  Flemish  school  of  painting,  the  middle  ages 
and  the  renaissance ;  rapidly  pronounce  judgment  upon  an 
ancient  or  a  modern  book,  and  bring  to  light  with  cruel  grace, 
the  shortcomings  of  a  work.  Ths  simplest  of  her  phrases  was 
received  by  the  idolatrous  Oi-owd  like  a  fetfa  of  the  sultan  by 
the  Turk-5.  Thus,  while  she  dar-xled  superficial  people,  her 
natural  tact  enabled  Iitr  to  discover  those  who  were  not  super- 
ficial, and  for  them  she  was  so  full  of  coquetry,  that  aided  by 
this  seductive  chaira,  slie  managed  to  escape  their  criticism. 

Beneath  this  alluring  varnish  lay  a  reckless  heart,  a  convic- 
tion (shared  by  many  young  girls)  that  no  one  occupied  a  suf- 
ficiently lofty  sphere,  to  be  able  to  comprehend  her  mental 
superiority,  and  a  pride  based  as  much  upon  her  birth  as  on 
her  beauty.  Pending  the  atsence  of  that  potent  passion  which 
sooner  or  later  seizes  on  the  heart  of  woman,  she  found  scope 
for  her  youthful  ardor  in  an  extravagant  love  for  social  distinc- 
tions, and  she   exhibited  the  most  profound  contempt  for 


19G  BALZAC. 

roturiers.  Very  impertinent  in  her  manner  to  the  new  nobility, 
she  devoted  all  her  exertions  to  ensuring  her  parents'  equality 
among  the  most  illustrious  families  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain. 
These  views  had  not  escaped  the  observant  eye  of  Monsieur 
de  Fontaine,  who  had  more  than  once  since  the  marriage  of 
'  his  eldest  daughter  groaned  over  the  sarcasms  and  witticisms 
of  6milie.  Consistent  people  will  doubtless  be  surprised  to 
see  the  old  Vendean  conferring  his  eldest  daughter  on  a 
receiver-general,  who  certainly  was  the  owner  of  sundry  old 
seigniorial  domains,  but  whose  name  was  not  preceded  by 
that  particle  which  distinguished  so  many  of  the  defenders  of 
the  monarchy;  while  the  second  daughter  had  been  married 
to  a  judge  too  recently  baroidfied,  to  make  the  people  forget 
the  fact  that  his  father  had  sold  firewood.  This  noteworthy 
alteration  in  the  ideas  of  a  nobleman  at  the  moment  when  he 
was  attaining  his  sixtieth  year,  an  epoch  at  which  men  rarely 
change  their  convictions,  was  not  due  merely  to  his  lamentable 
sojourn  in  the  modern  Babylon,  where  in  the  long-run  all  pro- 
vincials lose  their  angularities ;  the  new  political  conscience  of 
Monsieur  de  Fontaine  was  rather  the  result  of  the  councils 
and  friendship  of  the  king.  That  royal  philosopher  had  taken 
a  pleasure  in  converting  the  Vendean  to  the  ideas  demanded 
by  the  progress  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  the  renovation 
of  the  monarchy.  Louis  XVIII.  wanted  to  fuse  parties,  just 
as  Napoleon  had  fused  both  men  and  things.  The  legitimate 
monarch,  who  was  perhaps  as  intelligent  as  his  rival,  acted  in 
a  different  direction.  The  last  of  the  Bourbons  was  as  anxious 
to  satisfy  the  people  and  the  imperialists,  as  the  first  of  the 
Napoleons  was  to  surround  himself  with  the  leaders  of  the 
aristocracy,  and  to  endow  the  church.  As  the  confidant  of  the 
monarch's  thoughts,  the  councillor  of  state  had  gradually  be- 
come one  of  the  most  influential  and  wisest  chiefs  of  that  moder- 
ate party  which,  in  the  name  of  the  national  interests,  ardently 
desired  the  fusion  of  opinions.  He  preached  the  costly  princi- 
ples of  constitutional  government,  and  backed  with  all  his  might 


THE   BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  197 

the  play  of  that  political  see-saw,  which  enabled  his  master  in  the 
midst  of  political  excitement  to  govern  France.  Perhaps  M.  de 
Fontaine  hoped  to  gain  a  peerage  through  one  of  those  gusts  of 
wind  which  overtook  the  legislature,  and  whose  strange  results 
used  in  those  days  to  surprise  the  oldest  politicians.  One  oi 
his  most  stubborn  principles  was  his  non-recognition  oi  any 
nobility  in  France,  except  the  peers, — the  only  class  whose 
families  had  any  privileges. 

"A  nobility  without  privileges,"  he  would  say,  "is  a  handle 
without  a  cool."  Being  as  far  removed  from  the  party  of  La- 
fayette, as  from  that  of  La  Bourdonnaye,  he  entered  with 
ardor  upon  that  general  reconciliation  out  of  which  was  to 
arise  a  new  era  and  a  brilliant  destiny  for  France.  He  sought 
to  convince  the  families  who  frequented  his  reception-rooms, 
and  among  whom  he  visited,  that  the  chances  offered  by  the 
army  and  the  civil  service  would  thenceforward  be  but  small.  He 
urged  mothers  to  place  their  sons  in  independent  professions 
and  industrial  pursuits,  giving  them  to  understand  that  mili- 
tary offices  and  the  higher  grades  in  the  government  departments 
would  ere  long  be  reserved,  most  constitutionally  of  course,  for 
the  younger  sons  of  peers. 

In  his  view,  the  people  had  obtained  their  full  share  of  gov- 
ernment appointments  through  their  elective  Assembly,  and 
the  judicial  and  financial  posts,  which  he  said  would  always 
be,  as  they  had  hitherto  been,  the  appanage  of  the  chiefs  of 
the  people. 

These  new  ideas  of  the  head  of  the  De  Fontaine  family, 
and  the  prudent  marriages  which,  in  the  case  of  his  two  elder 
daughters,  had  resulted  from  the  change,  had  met  with  strong 
opposition  at  the  domestic  hearth.  The  Countess  de  Fontaine 
remained  faithful  to  the  old  beliefs  which  a  woman  who  was 
connected  through  her  mother  with  the  Rohans,  could  not 
recant.  But  though  she  had  for  a  time  resisted  the  fortune 
and  happiness  of  her  two  elder  daughters,  she  yielded  to  those 
private  considerations  which  husband  and  wife  confide  to  each 


198  BALZAC. 

Other  at  night  when  iheir  heads  are  resting  on  the  same  pillow. 
Monsieur  de  Fontaine  coolly  demonstrated  to  his  wife  by  the 
most  accurate  calculations,  that  their  residence  in  Paris,  the 
necessity  of  giving  entertainments,  the  splendor  of  Jiis  estab- 
lishment— a  set-off  against  the  hardships  which  they  had  so 
bravely  shared  in  the  depths  of  La  Vendue — together  with  the 
expenses  incurred  on  behalf  of  their  sons,  exhausted  almost 
the  whole  of  their  revenues,,  and  that  therefore  it  behoved 
them  to  embrace  as  a  heaven-sent  favor  the  opportunity  vvhicl) 
offered  itself  of  getting  their  daughters  so  advantageously 
settled.  Would  they  not  sooner  or  later  enjoy  an  income  oi" 
60,000,  80,000  or  100,000  francs?  Such  advantageous  matches 
were  not  to  be  met  will;  eveiy  day  for  portionless  girls.  And 
then,  it  was  high  rime  for  them  to  think  of  saving,  in  ordei  to 
increase  the  De  Fontaine  estate,  and  reconstruct  the  ancient 
territorial  fortune  of  the  family.  The  countess  yielded,  as  any 
mother  in  her  position  would  (though  perhaps  with  better 
grace;  have  yit-ded  to  arguments  so  persuasive :  but  she 
declared  that  at  least  her  youngest  daughter  6milie  should  find 
a  husband,  calculated  to  gratify  the  pride  which  she  had  un- 
fortunately helped  to  develope  in  her  youthful  breast. 

Thus,  those  events  which  should  have  shod  joy  over  this 
family,  introduced  into  It  a  slight  leaven  of  discord  The 
receiver-general  and  the  young  judge  were  exposed  to  a  cere- 
monious frigidity,  set  up  by  the  countess  and  her  daughter 
Emilia.  But  their  etiquette  furnished  them  yet  wider  scope 
for  the  exercise  of  their  domestic  tyranny.  The  lieutenant- 
general  married  Mademoiselle  Mongenod,  the  daughter  of  a 
wealthy  banker;  the  president  very  wisely  married  a  young 
lady,  whose  father  had  amassed,  as  a  salt  merchant,  a  fortune 
of  two  or  three  millions.  Lastly,  the  third  brother  exhibited 
his  fidelity  to  his  plebian  doctrines,  by  taking  to  wife  Made- 
molsella  Grostctc,  the  only  daughter  o?  the  receiver-general  of 
Bourge<«-.  But  the  three  sisters-in-law  and  the  two  brothers-in- 
law  derived  so  much  pleasure  and  personal  advantage  from 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  199 

remaining  in  the  lofty  circles  of  political  power,  and  the  society 
of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  that  they  all  agreed  to  form  a 
little  couit  around  the  haughty  Emilie.  This  pact  between 
interest  and  pride,  however,  was  not  so  well  cemented,  but 
that  the  young  sovereign  occasionally  provoked  a  revolution  in 
her  miniature  state.  Scenes,  not  indeed  transgressing  the 
limits  of  good  taste,  tended  to  keep  up  among  all  the  members 
of  that  powerful  family  an  ironical  mood,  which,  without 
interrupting  the  tone  of  friendship  assumed  in  public,  did 
sometimes  degenerate  at  home  into  feelings  decidedly  unchari- 
table. Thus,  the  wife  of  the  lieutenant-general,  now  a  baroness, 
considered  herself  quite  as  noble  as  a  Kergarouet,  and  main- 
tained that  a  good  four  thousand  a  year  gave  her  the  right  to 
be  as  impertinent  as  her  sister-in-law,  ^^milie,  to  whom  she 
would  sometimes  express  an  ironical  hope  that  she  would  make  a 
good  match,  telling  her  that  the  daughter  of  such  and  such  a 
peer  had  just  married  plain  Mr.  So  and-so.  The  wife  of  the 
Vicomte  de  Fontaine  took  pleasure  in  eclipsing  6milie  by  the 
luxurious  elegance  of  her  dress,  furniture,  and  carriages.  The 
ironical  manner  in  tvhich  the  sisters-in-law  and  the  two 
brothers-in-law  sometimes  received  the  pretensions  set  up  by 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  threw  her  into  fits  of  anger,  which 
the  production  of  a  shower  of  epigrams  could  scarcely  calm. 
When  the  chief  of  the  family  experienced  a  certain  abatement 
in  the  covert  and  precarious  friendship  of  the  monarch,  it 
caused  him  all  the  more  apprehension  because,  goaded  by  the 
ironical  challenges  of  her  sisters-in-law,  Emilie  had  at  that 
crisis  fixed  her  hopes  higher  than  ever. 

While  affairs  were  in  this  condition,  and  the  little  family 
strife  was  at  its  worst,  the  king,  into  whose  good  graces  M.  de 
Fontaine  thought  himself  on  the  point  of  being  restored,  was 
attacked  by  the  illness  which  was  destined  to  carry  him  off. 
The  wary  politician,  who  knew  so  well  how  to  steer  his  bark 
amid  the  tempest,  very  shortly  died. 

Sure  of  the  favor  of  the  succeeding  monarch  the  Count  de 


200  BALZAC. 

Fontaine  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost  to  gather  round  his 
youngest  daughter  the  pick  of  marriageable  young  men. 
Those  who  have  tried  the  solution  of  that  difficult  problem—  - 
the  establishment  of  a  proud  and  capricious  girl,  will  perhaps 
understand  the  trouble  which  the  poor  Vendean  took.  If  he 
could  accomplish  the  task  to  the  satisfaction  of  his  pet  daugh- 
ter, he  would  then  have  achieved  a  fitting  termination  of  the 
career  which  he  had  been  pursuing  at  Paris  for  the  last  ten 
years. 

<n -respect  of  the  manner  in  which  his  family  had  fastened 
itself  upon  the  revenues  of  the  various  departments  of  the 
government  it  might  be  compared  to  the  house  of  Austria, 
which  threatened  through  its  alliances  to  invade  the  whole  uf 
Europe.  Accordingly,  the  old  Vendean  went  on  courageously 
presenting  aspirant  after  aspirant,  so  dear  to  him  was  the 
happiness  of  his  daughter.  But  nothing  could  be  more 
comical  than  the  way  in  which  the  impertinent  girl  pronounced 
sentence  upon,  and  appraised  the  lucrits  of  her  admirers.  One 
would  have  thought  that,  like  one  of  the  princesses  v,'hom  we  read 
of  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  she  was  rich  and  handsome  enough  to 
have  the  right  of  selection  from  among  all  the  princes  in  the 
world.  To  every  suitor  she  raised  an  absurd  objection  follow- 
ed by  an  objection  yet  more  absurd.  The  legs  of  one  were 
too  lanky;  another  was  knock-kneed;  this  one  was  near- 
sighted; that  one  was  named  Durand;  a  third  v/as  lame,  while 
nearly  all  were  too  fat.  Livelier,  gayer,  moie  charming  than 
ever,  after  having  rejected  two  or  three  applicants,  she  plunged 
into  the  gaieties  and  balls  of  the  season,  scrutinizing  with  her 
piercing  eyes  the  celebrities  of  the  day,  and  delighting  in  pro- 
voking the  offers  which  she  invariably  refused.  Nature  had 
bestowed  upon  her  in  profusion  the  gifts  essential  to  the  part 
of  Celimbne.  Tall  and  exquisitely  formed,  Emilie  de  P'ontaine 
could  be  imposing  or  playful,  as  she  pleased.  Her  neck,  which 
was  rather  long,  enabled  her  to  assume  delightful  altitudes  of 
scorn  and  of  impertinence.     She  had  formed  a  fertile  repertory 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  201 

of  those  airs  de  tete  and  those  feminine  gestures  which  give 
such  fatal  or  such  favorable  emphasis  to  a  broken  phrase  or  to 
a  smile.  Beautiful  black  eyes,  thick  and  well-arched  eye- 
brows, conferred  upon  her  features  an  expression  which 
coquetry  and  the  looking-glass  taught  her  to  heighten  or  to 
moderate  by  the  steadiness  or  the  tenderness  of  her  glance,  by 
the  fixing  or  gentle  flexure  of  the  lips,  by  the  coldness  or. 
the  graces  of  her  smile.  If  6milie  wanted  to  win  the  heart  of 
any  one,  there  was  a  certain  melody  in  her  pure  voice ;  but 
she  could  also  endow  it  with  a  sort  of  abrupt  clearness  when 
she  desired  to  paralyze  the  tongue  of  some  prudent  swain. 
Her  pale  face  and  alabaster  forehead  resembled  the  limpidbosom 
of  a  lake  which  now  ripples  in  the  breeze  and  now  resumes  its 
glad  serenity  as  the  wind  subsides.  Several  young  men  who  had 
suffered  from  her  disdain,  accused  her  of  stage-play,  but  she 
revenged  herself  by  inspiring  the  calumniator  with  a  desire 
to  win  her  favor  and  then  subjecting  him  without  mercy  to  all 
the  contempt  which  her  coquetry  could  suggest.  Among  all 
the  fashionable  girls  of  the  day,  none  understood  be  cr  than 
she  did  how  to  assume  a  supercilious  air  when  accosted  by  a 
man  of  talent,  or  how  to  display  that  insulting  politeness  which 
makes  inferiors  of  our  equals,  or  how  to  deluge  with  imperti- 
nence all  who  attempted  to  place  themselves  on  a  level  with 
herself.  Wherever  she  appeared  she  seemed  to  be  receiving 
homage  rather  than  compliments,  and  even  in  the  presence  of 
a  princess  her  bearing  and  her  airs  would  have  converted  the 
arm-chair  in  which  she  was  seated  into  the  throne  of  an 
cjnpress. 

Monsieur  de  Fontaine  discovered  all  too  late  how  wrong  was 
the  direction  given  to  the  education  of  his  favorite  daughter  by 
the  affection  of  the  entire  family.  The  homage  of  the  world — 
for  which  the  young  woman  who  receives  it  has  afterwards  to 
pay  full  dearly — had  still  further  developed  finiilie's  pride  and 
augmented  her  selfconfidence.  The  general  deference  had 
fostered  the  growth  of  that  egotism  which  is  natural  to  spoiled 


202  BALZAO. 

children  who,  like  kings,  make  toys  of  all  who  approach  them. 
At  this  moment  the  grace  of  youth  and  the  charms  of  her  ac- 
complishments cast  a  thick  veil  over  her  defects — defects  which 
are  all  the  more  odious  in  a  woman,  because  it  is  only  through 
love  and  self-sacrifice  that  she  can  hope  to  please.  Since  no- 
thing escapes  the  eye  of  a  good  father,  M.  de  Fontaine  often 
endeavored  to  expound  to  his  daughter  the  principal  pages  of 
the  enigmatic  book  of  life.  Vain  enterprise  !  Again  and  again 
he  had  had  cause  lo  mourn  over  the  capricious  indocility  and 
the  ironical  prudence  of  his  daughter ;  so  that  he  at  last  aban- 
doned the  difficult  task  of  correcting  a  sinister  disposition,  and 
confined  himself  to  offering,  from  time  to  time,  his  gentle  and 
benevolent  advice.  But  he  had  the  mortification  to  see  his 
most  affectionate  words  gliding  from  his  daughter's  heart,  as  if 
it  had  been  made  of  marble.  The  eyes  of  a  father  are  so  long 
sealed  that  it  required  some  experience  ere  M.  de  Fontaine 
perceived  the  condescension  which  his  daughter  mingled  with 
her  rare  caresses.  She  was  like  a  little  child  which  seems  to 
say  to  her  mother,  "  Make  haste  and  kiss  me,  and  let  me  go 
and  play."  In  short,  ^milie  condescended  to  be  affectionate  to 
her  parents.  But  at  times,  in  accordance  with  one  of  those 
sudden  whims  which  seem  inexplicable  in  girls,  she  shut  herself 
up  and  would  allow  herself  to  be  seen  but  rarely.  She  would 
complain  that  she  had  to  share  the  affections  of  her  parents 
with  everybody ;  and  grew  jealous  of  everyone,  even  of  her 
sisters  and  brothers.  Then,  after  having  been  at  great  pains 
to  surround  herself  with  a  dessert,  th^  flighty  girl  would  blame 
nature  itself  for  her  factitious  solitude  and  self-inflicted  sorrows. 
Armed  with  her  twenty  years'  experience,  she  accused  fate,  be- 
cause in  her  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  the  principle  of  all  hap- 
piness lies  in  ourselves,  she  sought  it  in  the  externalities  of 
existence.  She  would  have  gone  to  the  end  of  the  world  to 
escape  such  marriages  as  her  sisters  had  contracted,  and  yet 
her  heart  was  beset  with  frightful  envy  at  seeing  them  well  and 
happily  married.     In  fact  she  sometimes  created  in  the  mind 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  203 

of  her  mother  (who  was  equally  with  M.  de  Fontaine  the  victim 
of  her  singularities)  an  impression  that  there  was  a  grain  of 
madness  in  her  composition.  But  this  aberration  was  easily 
explainable.  Nothing  is  more  common  than  this  secret  pride 
nurtured  in  the  hearts  of  young  women  of  the  upper  classes 
whom  nature  has  endowed  with  great  beauty.  They  are  almost 
all  persuaded  that  their  mothers.,  having  reached  the  age  of 
forty  or  fifty,  can  no  longer  enter  into  their  feelings  nor  under- 
stand their  whims.  They  fancy  that  most  mothers,  being  jeal- 
ous of  ilieir  daughters,  want  to  dress  them  in  their  own  fashion,, 
with  the  premeditated  design  of  outshining  rhem  and  robbing 
them  of  the  admiration  which  is  their  due.  Hence  secret  tears 
and  mute  rebellion  against  this  fancied  maternal  despotism. 
In  the  midst  of  these  griefs,  which  though  founded  on  an  ima- 
ginary basis,  become  real  enough,  such  girls  harbor  the  addi- 
tional mania  of  composing  a  scheme  of  existence  for  themselves, 
and  casting  a  brilliant  horoscope.  Their  magic  consists  in 
taking  dreams  for  realities.  They  secretly  resolve  in  their 
protracted  meditations,  to  withhold  their  hands  and  hearts  from 
the  man  who  does  not  possess  certain  advantages.  They  pro- 
ducer an  imaginary  type,  to  which,  come  what  may,  the  future 
husband  must  conform.  After  some  practical  experience  of 
life,  when  they  have  indulged  those  serious  reflections  which 
years  bring  in  their  train,  the  bright  hues  of  their  ideal  image 
fade  away,  under  the  influence  of  the  world,  with  its  prosaic 
routine.  Then,  one  fine  day  they  wake  up,  and  find  themselves 
m  the  full  stream  of  existence,  and  are  quite  surprised  at  being 
happy,  without  the  nuptial  poetry  of  their  dreams.  In  accord- 
ance with  such  poetry,  Mademoiselle  llmilie  de  Fontaine  had, 
in  her  fragile  wisdom,  laid  down  a  programme  to  which  the 
successful  aspirant  to  her  hand  must  conform.  Hence  her 
disdain  and  hence  her  sarcasms. 

"  He  must  be," — thus  she  reasoned  with  herself, — "  not 
merely  young  and  of  the  highest  birth,  but  a  peer,  or  the  eldest 
son  of  a  peer.     I  could  noi  endure  to  see  my  arms  upon  a  car- 


204  BALZAC. 

riage-door,  not  surrounded  by  the  flowing  folds  of  an  azure 
mantle,  and  not  to  share  with  princes  the  privilege  of  driving 
through  the  grand  avenue  of  the  Champs  6lysees,  during  the 
Long-champs  meetings.  Moreover,  my  father  maintains,  that 
the  day  is  coming,  when  a  peerage  will  be  the  highest  dignity  in 
France.  I  should  like  my  husband  to  be  a  soldier,  reserving 
to  myself  the  right  to  call  on  him  to  retire ;  and  he  must  be 
decorated,  so  that  arms  will  be  presented  as  we  pass." 

These  uncommon  distinctions  would  go  for  nothing  if  this 
imaginary  being  were  not  extremely  amiable,  handsome,  and 
clever,  and  above  all — if  he  were  not  slim.  Slimness,  that  cor- 
poral gi"ace,  however  transient  it  may  be,,  especially  under  a 
representative  government,  was  a  sine  qud  non.  Mademoiselle 
de  Fontaine  had  a  certain  ideal  measure  which  served  as  a 
model.  The  young  man  who  did  not  at  the  first  glance  con- 
form to  the  required  condition,  was  not  even  favored  with  a 
second  look. 

"  Oh !  my  God !  how  fat  that  gentleman  is  ! "  was  with  her 
the  expression  of  sovereign  contempt. 

According  to  her,  people  endowed  with  an  honest  corpulence, 
were  incapable  of  feeling ;  they  must  be  bad  husbands,^  and 
altogether  unfit  for  civilized  society.  Though  plumpness  was 
looked  upon  as  a  beauty  in  eastern  climes,  it  seemed  to  her  a 
misfortune  for  women ;  in  a  man  it  was  a  crime. 

These  paradoxical  opinions  produced,  thanks  to  the  liveli- 
ness with  which  they  were  enunciated,  a  certain  amount  of 
amusement. 

But,  nevertheless,  the  Count  de  Fontaine  felt  that  the  pre- 
tensions of  his  daughter,  the  absurdity  of  which  would  very 
soon  attract  the  attention  of  certain  ladies,  who  were  as  clear- 
sighted as  they  were  malicious,  would  end  by  rendering  those 
pretensions  fatally  ridiculous.  He  was  afraid  lest  the  peculiar 
notions  of  his  daughter  should  degenerate  in  pronounced  bad 
taste.  He  was  afraid  that  an  unpit>ing  world  might  be  already 
slily  laughing  at  a  person  who  remained  so  long  upon  the  stage, 


THE  EALL  AT  SCEAUX.  205 

without  any  denouement  to  the  piece  which  she  was  acting. 
Several  of  the  actors,  annoyed  at  having  been  rejected,  seemed 
to  be  waiting  for  any  slight  disaster,  which  would  enable  them 
to  revenge  themselves ;  while  the  idle  and  the  unconcerned 
began  to  grow  weary.  Admiration  is  always  exhausting  to 
human  nature.  The  old  Vendean  knew,  as  well  as  any  one, 
that,  difficult  as  is  the  art  of  selecting  the  right  moment  for 
appearing  on  the  stage  of  the  world  or  of  the  court,  for  enter- 
ing a  drawing-room  or  a  theatre,  it  is  still  more  difficult  to 
leave  them  in  the  nick  of  time.  And  accordingly,  during  the 
first  winter  that  followed  the  accession  of  Charles  X.,  he,  in  • 
conjunction  with  his  three  sons  and  his  sons-in-law,  redoubled 
his  efforts  to  attract  to  his  receptions  the  most  eligible  men  to 
be  found  in  Paris,  and  among  the  deputies  of  the  departments. 
The  brilliance  of  his  entertainments,  the  splendor  of  his  dining- 
room,  and  his  dinners,  redolent  of  truffles,  rivalled  those  cele- 
brated banquets  whereby  the  ministers  of  the  period  secured 
the  votes  of  their  parliamentary  troops. 

The  worthy  deputy  was  thereupon  singled  out,  as  one 
of  the  most  potent  corruptors  of  legislative  integrity  in 
that  illustrious  Chamber,  which  seemed  to  be  dying  of  indi- 
gestion. 

It  was  a  strange  result  of  his  endeavors  to  get  his  daughter 
married,  that  he  should  preserve  his  popularity  at  court.  Per- 
haps he  found  it  secretly  advantageous  to  sell  his  truffles  twice. 
This  accusation,  which  had  its  origin  among  certain  Liberal 
carpers,  who  compensated  the  dearth  of  their  adherents  in  the 
house  by  the  abundance  of  their  speeches,  did  not  stick.  The 
conduct  of  the  Poitou  nobleman  was,  for  the  most  part,  so  up- 
right and  honorable,  that  he  altogether  escaped  those  epigrams 
which  the  malicious  journals  of  the  epoch  hurled  at  the  300 
voters  of  the  centre,  the  ministers,  the  cooks,  the  directors- 
general,  the  princes  of  the  fork,  and  the  official  defenders,  who 
supported  the  Villele  administration.  At  the  conclusion  of  this 
campaign,  during  which  M.  de  Fontaine  had  several  times 


20G  BALZAC. 

taken  the  whole  of  his  troops  into  action,  he  thought  that  his 
collection  of  admirers  would  not  on  this  occasion  be  a  mere 
optical  illusion  for  his  daughter,  and  that  it  was  high  time  for 
her  to  come  to  a  decision. 

He  derived  a  certain  amount  of  internal  satisfaction  from  the 
due  fulfilment  of  his  duty  as  a  father;  and  besides,  after  having 
brought  into  play  every  resource,  he  hoped  that  among  the 
many  hearts  laid  at  the  feet  of  the  capricious  Emelie  there 
might  be  found  at  least  one  whom  she  might  have  favored. 

Feeling  that  he  could  not  repeat  such  an  effort,  and  weary 
of  his  daughter's  conduct,  he  determined  to  have  a  consulta- 
tion with  her  one  morning  towards  the  end  of  Lent,  when  the 
sitting  of  the  House  was  not  of  a  nature  imperatively  to 
demand  his  vote.  While  his  valet  was  artistically  designing 
upon  his  yellow  cranium  the  delta  of  powder  which,  in  con- 
junction with  the  pendant  ailes  de  pigeon,  formed  his  venerable 
head  gear,  6milie's  father,  not  without  a  secret  tremor,  requested 
his  old  valet  de  chavihre  to  go  and  ask  the  haughty  damsel  to 
pay  a  visit  to  the  head  of  the  family. 

"  Joseph,"  said  the  old  nobleman,  when  his  head-gear  was 
adjusted,  "  take  away  this  napkin,  draw  the  curtains,  arrange 
the  armchairs,  shake  the  chimney-cloth,  and  put  it  on  straight, 
and  then  dust  the  room.  Now,  just  open  the  window,  and  let 
us  have  a  little  fresh  air. 

The  count  multiplied  his  orders  and  made  Joseph  quite  out 
of  breath.  Joseph,  who  guessed  his  master'?  motive,  restored 
some  neatness  to  the  room,  which  vas  naturally  the  most 
neglected  in  the  house,  and  succeeded  in  producing  a  certain 
amount  of  order  aniorig  the  heaps  of  riccounts,  boxes,  books, 
and  other  furniture  of  this  sanctuary,  in  which  th.e  affairs  of  the 
royal  demesnes  were  iransacted.  When  Joseph  Irad  succeeded 
in  introducing  some  order  irilo  this  cliaos,  and  had  brought  to 
the  front,  just  as  if  he  had  been  «lressing  the  window  of  a 
fashionable  shop,  whatever  would  make  the  best  show,  and  was 
calculated  to  produce,  by  means  of  its  tints,  a  sort  of  bureau- 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  207 

cralic  poetn-,  he  stopped  in  the  midst  of  the  maze  of  papers 
piled  up  in  certain  places,  even  on  the  carpet,  gave  a  little  nod 
of  self  approval,  and  left  the  room. 

The  unhappy  sinecurist  by  no  means  shared  the  batisfaction 
of  his  servant.  Before  taking  his  seat  in  his  large  arm-chair, 
he  looked  around  him  with  an  air  of  distrust,  examined  his 
dressing-gown  with  a  hostile  eye,  swept  away  some  particles  of 
snuff,  carefully  wiped  his  nose,  arranged  the  shovel  and  the 
tongs,  stirred  the  fire,  pulled  up  the  heels  of  his  slippers,  threw 
back  his  little  pigtail,  which  had  assumed  a  horizontal  position 
between  the  collar  of  his  waistcoat  and  that  of  his  dressing- 
gown,  and  caused  it  to  resume  its  perpendicular  position ;  then 
he  gave  a  touch  of  the  broom  to  the  cinders  of  a  hearth  which 
afforded  strong  evidence  of  the  inveteracy  of  his  catarrh.  In 
short,  the  old  man  did  not  sit  down  until  he  had  glanced  his 
eye  for  the  last  time  over  his  study,  in  the  hope  that  there  was 
nothing  to  give  rise  to  the  very  comical  and  impertinent  remarks 
with  which  his  daughter  was  wont  to  reply  to  his  sage  advice. 
On  this  occasion  he  did  not  want  to  compromise  his  paternal 
dignity.  He  gingerly  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  cleared  his 
throat  two  or  three  times,  as  if  he  were  about  to  demand,  when 
he  heard  the  light  footstep  of  his  daughter,  who  came  in  hum- 
ming an  air  from  "  II  Barbiere." 

•'  Good  morning,  father.  What  do  you  want  me  for  so 
early?" 

Having  uttered  these  words  as  if  they  were  the  refrain  of  the 
air  which  she  was  singing,  she  kissed  the  count,  not  with  that 
familiar  fondness  which  makes  the  filial  sentiment  so  sweet,  but 
with  the  careless  levity  of  a  mistress  who  is  sure  that,  do  what 
she  will,  she  will  please. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  M.  de  Fontaine  gravely,  "  I  have 
sent  for  you  in  order  to  talk  with  you  very  seriously  about  your 
future.  The  necessity  in  which  you  are  now  placed  of  making 
such  choice  of  a  husband  as  may  ensure  your  permanent  hap- 
piness— " 


208  BALZAC. 

"  My  dear  fatiier,"  said  Lmilie,  internipting  her  fatliei  in  her 
most  endearing  tones,  *•'  it  seems  to  me  that  the  iirmistice, 
entered  into  between  you  and  me  in  regard  to  my  admirers,  has 
not  yet  expired." 

"  j^milie,  let  us,  from  this  day  forth,  cease  to  joke  aliout  so 
important  a  matter.  For  some  time  past,  my  dear  child,  those 
who  truly  love  you  have  united  their  efforts  to  secure  yoit  u 
proper  establishment,  and  you  would  be  guilty  oj  ingratitude 
were  you  to  receive  v/ith  levity  the  proofs  of  good-wili  which, 
not  only  I,  but  others  also,  shower  upon  you  " 

On  hearing  these  words  the  young  lady  looked  with  an  eye 
of  mischievous  investigation  at  the  lurniture  of  her  father's- 
study ;  she  then  selected  the  particular  armchair  which  seemed 
to  have  least  frequently  afforded  a  seat  to  those  who  carnc  to 
solicit  her  father's  favors,  placed  it  on  the  other  side  of  the 
fireplace,  so  that  she  might  face  her  father,  assumed  an  attitude 
so  grave,  that  it  was  impossible  to  avoid  seeing  therein  certain 
traces  of  irony,  and  crossed  her  arms  over  the  rich  trimming  of 
a  tippet  a  la  nei^e,  whose  numerous  frills  of  tulle  were  thu.'i 
mercilessly  crumpled.  After  having  cast  a  laughing  side-glance 
at  her  old  father's  anxious  countenance,  she  spoke.  '  I  nevr 
heard  you  say,  father,  that  the  government  delivered  Its  oracles 
in  a  dressing-gown.  But,  no  matter,"  added  she,  "the  people 
mu.st  not  be  critical.  Let  me  hear  what  are  your  projects  of 
law  and  official  communications." 

"  I  might  not  always  be  in  a  position  to  make  you  any,  you 
young  madcap.  Listen  l^milie.  It  is  not  my  intention  any 
longer  to  run  the  risk  of  injuring  my  reputation,  v/hich  is  apart 
of  my  children.s'  fortune,  by  recruiting  the  regiment  of  partners 
whom  it  is  your  good  pleasure'to  put  to  flight  every  spring. 
You  have  already  been  the  cause  of  several  dangerous  misun- 
derstandings with  certain  families.  I  liope  that  lo-dny  you 
more  fully  understand  the  difficulties  of  your  own  position  and 
of  ours.  You  are  twenty-two  years  of  age,  and  you  ought  to 
have  been  married  nearly  three  years  ago.    Youi  brothers  and 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  209 

your  two  sisters  have  all  formed  wealthy  and  happy  unions. 
But,  my  child,  the  expenditure  which  those  unions  have  involved 
and  the  style  in  which  we  are  living  on  your  account,  have  made 
such  a  hole  in  our  income,  that  it  is  as  much  as  I  can  do  to 
give  you  a  portion  of  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  From  to-day 
I  want  to  study  the  future  of  your  mother,  who  ought  not  to  be 
sacrificed  to  her  children.  If  I  should  die,  6milie,  Madame 
de  Fontaine  ought  not  to  be  left  to  the  tender  mercies  of  any 
one.  She  ought  to  continue  to  enjoy  the  affluence  by  which  I 
have  recompensed,  all  too  late,  her  devotion  in  my  early  mis- 
fortunes. You  see,  my  child,  that  the  insignificance  of  youi 
portion  bears  no  sort  of  proportion  to  your  ideas  of  grandeur. 
Even  that  portion  will  be  a  sacrifice  which  I  have  not  made  for 
any  of  my  other  children;  but  they  have  generously  agreed 
never  to  taunt  you  with  the  advantage  which  we  are  about  to- 
confer  on  a  child  too  well  beloved." 

"  In  their  position,"  said  J&mile,  shaking  her  head  ironically.. 
"  My  daughter,  never  try  thus  to  depreciate  those  who  love 
you.  Learn  that  it  is  only  the  poor  who  are  generous.  The 
rich  have  always  excellent  reasons  for  not  abandoning  twenty 
thOuSand  francs  to  a  relative.  Now,  don't  sulk,  my  child,  and 
let  us  talk  rationally.  Among  the  young  fellows  who  are  look- 
ing out  for  a  wife  have  you  not  noticed  M.  de  Manerville  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  says  zeu  instead  oi  Jeu;  he  is  always  looking  at  his 
feet  because  he  considers  them  small ;  and  he  looks  at  himsell 
in  the  glass.  Besides,  he  is  fair,  and  I  don't  like  fair  men." 
"Well,  then,  there  is  Monsieur  de  Beaudenord?" 
"  He  is  not  a  nobleman  ;  he  is  badly  built  and  thickset ;  I 
grant  you  he  is  dark.  The  two  gentlemen  ought  to  come  to 
an  agreement  to  unite  their  resources.  The  former  ought  to 
give  his  figure  and  his  name  to  the  second,  who  might  keep 
his  own  hair,  and  then — perhaps — " 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  against  M.  de  Rastignac?" 

"  Madame  de  Nucingen  has  converted  him  into  a  banker." 

"  And  our  relation  the  Viscount  de  Portendubre  ?" 


210  BALZAC. 

"A  lad  who  dances  badly,  and  besides  has  no  fortune. 
And  then,  father,  none  of  them  has  a  title.  I  should  like  to 
be  at  least  .  countess,  like  my  mother." 

"Then  you  have  not  seen  any  one  this  winter  whom  .  .  ." 

"  No  father." 

"Then  what  is  it  that  you  want  ?" 

"  The  son  of  a  peer." 

"  Daughter,  you  are  mad,"  said  M.  de  Fontaine,  rising. 

But  all  at  once  he  looked  upwards  and  seemed  to  imbibe  a 
fresh  dose  of  resignation,  from  some  religious  reflection.  Then, 
looking  at  his  child  with  a  look  of  fatherly  kindness,  which 
produced  some  effect  upon  her,  he  took  her  hand,  pressed  it, 
and  said  tenderly,  '*  I  call  God  to  witness,  you  poor  deluded 
creature,  I  have  conscientiously  fulfilled  my  duties  towards 
you;  conscientiously,  did  I  say?  lovingly,  6milie.  Yes,  God 
knows  that  I  have  this  winter  introduced  you  to  more  than 
one  honest  man,  whose  capacity,  morals,  and  disposition  were 
known  to  me,  and  all  of  them  seemed  good  enough  for,  you. 
My  child,  my  task  is  accomplished.  From  to  day  you  are  the 
arbiter  of  your  own  destiny.  I  am  both  glad  and  sorry  at 
the  same  time,  to  find  myself  acquitted  of  the  heaviest  of  all  a 
father's  duties.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  will  hear  much 
longer  a  voice  which  unfortunately  has  never  been  severe,  but 
remember  that  the  happiness  of  married  life  depends  less  upon 
brilliant  qualities  and  wealth,  than  on  mutual  esteem.  Such 
happiness  is,  from  its  very  nature,  modest  and  retiring.  Now, 
my  child,  my  consent  is  given  beforehand  to  the  son-in-law 
whom  you  present  to  me;  but  if  you  should  be  unhappy, 
remember  that  you  will  have  no  right  to  blame  your  father. 
I  will  not  refuse  to  act  in  the  matter,  and  to  assist  you,  pro- 
vided only  that  your  choice  be'  serious  and  definitive.  I  will 
not  compromise  a  second  time  the  respect  which  is  due  to  my 
grey  hairs." 

The  affection  displayed  by  her  father,  and  the  solemn  tone 
of  his  pathetic  harangue,  made  a  keen  impression  on  Made- 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  211 

moiselle  de  Fontaine,  but  she  concealed  the  depth  of  her  feel- 
ings, seated  herself  on  the  knees  of  he  count,  who  had  sat 
down  still  trembling  with  emotion,  and  lavished  on  him  her 
tenderest  caresses,  cajoling  him  so  gracefully,  that  the  old 
man's  forehead  grew  calm  again.  When  Emilie  thought  tha^ 
her  father  had  sufficiently  recovered  from  his  painful  excite- 
ment, she  said  to  him  in  a  low  tone, — 

"  I  must  thank  you  father  for  your  delicate  attention  ;  you 
had  your  room  put  in  order  for  the  reception  of  your  darling 
daughter.  Perhaps  you  did  not  know  that  you  would  find  her 
so  foolish  and  rebellious.  But,  father,  is  it  then  so  difficult  to 
marry  a  peer  of  France  ?  Ah,  at  all  events,  you  won't  refuse 
me  your  advice." 

"  No,  poor  child,  no,  and  I  will  call  out  to  you  more 
than  once — *  Beware.'  Consider,  then,  that  the  peerage  is  too 
new  a  spring  in  our  government  ability,  as  the  late  king  used  to 
say,  for  peers  to  possess  large  fortunes.  Those  who  are  rich 
wish  to  become  still  more  so.  The  most  opulent  of  all  the 
members  of  our  peerage  has  not  half  the  income  of  the  poorest 
member  of  the  English  House  of  Lords.  Thus,  the  peers  of 
France  will  look  out  for  wealthy  heiresses  for  their  sons,  no 
matter  where  they  may  spring  from.  This  necessity  for  mak- 
ing wealthy  marriages  will  last  for  more  than  two  centuries. 
It  is  just  possible  that  by  looking  about  for  the  lucky  chance 
which  you  desire,  a  search  which  may  cost  you  the  best  years 
of  your  life,  your  beauty  (for  a  good  many  men  marry  for  love 
in  this  age)  your  beauty,  I  say,  may  bring  about  a  miracle. 
When  experience  is  covered  by  so  blooming  a  face  as  yours, 
one  may  look  for  miracles.  Do  you  not,  in  the  first  place, 
posssess  the  gift  of  discovering  worth  by  the  greater  or  smaller 
bulk  of  the  human  body  i*  That  is  no  slight  accomplishment. 
And  therefore,  it  is  needless  for  me  to  point  out  to  a  person  so 
wise  as  yourself,  all  the  difficulties  of  the  undertaking.  I  am  cer- 
tain that  you  will  never  credit  a  stranger  with  good  sense  because 
his  face  is  prepossessing,  or  with  high  moral  qualities  because  he. 


212  BALZAC. 

has  a  good  figure;  and,  finally,  I  quite  agree  with  you  in  thinking 
that  all  peers'  sons  ought  to  have  an  air  of  their  own  and 
characteristic  manners.  Although  now-a-days  there  are  no 
distinctive  symbols  of  rank,  these  young  men  will  perhaps  pos- 
sess for  you  a  je  ne  sais  quot,  which  will  reveal  them  to  your 
observation.  Besides  you  keep  your  heart  in  check  just  like  a 
good  horseman,  who  is  sure  to  keep  his  charger  from  stumbling. 
My  daughter,  I  wish  you  good  luck." 

"  You  are  laughing  at  me,  father.  But  I  declare  to  you  that 
I  would  sooner  go  and  die  in  Mademoiselle  de  Conde's  con- 
vent, than  not  be  the  wife  of  a  peer  of  France." 

She  escapsd  from  her  father's  arms,  and  proud  of  being  her 
own  mistress,  she  went  away  singing  the  air  **  Cara  non  dubai- 
tre"  from  the  "  Matrimonio  Segreto." 

It  happened  that  that  day  was  a  birthday  in  the  family.  At 
dessert.  Madam  Planat,  ]femilie's  elder  sister,  the  wife  of  the 
receiver-general,  talked  loud  enough  to  be  overheard,  of  a 
young  American,  the  owner  of  an  immense  fortune,  who  had 
fallen  desperately  in  love  with  i^milie,  and  had  made  her  a 
brilliant  offer. 

"  He  is  a  banker,  I  believe,"  said  6milie  carelessly.  I  don't 
like  people  connected  with  finance." 

"  But  !]&milie,"  said  the  Baron  de  Villaine,  the  husband  of 
ifemilie's  second  sister,  you  like  the  magistracy  just  as  little,  so 
that  if  you  reject  untitled  landowners,  from  what  class  will  you 
choose  your  husband  ?" 

"  Especially  taking  into  consideration  your  theory  of  thin- 
ness," added  the  lieutenant-general. 

"  I  know  what  will  suit  me,"  replied  the  young  girl. 

"  My  sister  requires  a  good  name,  a  handsome  young  man, 
with  a  career  before  him,  and  an  income  of  a  hundred  thou- 
sand francs." 

"  Monsieur  de  Marsay,  for  example,"  said  the  Baroness  de 
Fontaine,  I 

."  I  know,  my  dear  sister,"  replied  ^milie,    **  that  I  shall  not 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  213 

make  one  of  those  foolish  matches  of  which  I  have  seen  so 
many.  But  to  avoid  these  matrimonial  discussions,  I  declare, 
that  I  shall  consider  those  who  speak  to  me  of  marriage  as  the 
enemies  of  my  peace  of  mind." 

An  uncle  of  6milie,  an  old  vice-admiral  of  seventy,  whose 
fortune  had  just  received  an  accession  of  800/.  a  year  in  con- 
sequence of  the  law  of  indemnity,  who  was  in  a  position  to  . 
speak  stern  truths  to  his  grand-niece,  and  was  extremely  fond 
of  her,  now  interposed  with  a  view  to  destroying  the  bitterness 
of  the  conversation.  **  Don't  tease  my  poor  Emilie.  Don't 
you  see  that  she  is  waiting  until  the  Due  de  Bordeaux  comes 
of  age." 

The  old  man's  joke  was  received  with  general  laughter,  while 
Jifemilie  retorted, — 

"  Take  care  that  I  don't  marry  you,  you  old  lunatic ;"  but 
the  last  words  were  fortunately  drowned  amid  the  noise. 

"  My  children,"  said  Madame  de  Fontaine,  in  order  to  tone 
down  this  impertinence.  "  ifemilie,  like  all  the  rest  of  you,  will 
consult  no  one  but  her  mother." 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  with  great 
distinctness,  "  in  a  matter  which  only  concerns  myself,  I  shall 
only  consult  myself." 

Every  eye  was  directed  to  the  head  of  the  family.  Every 
one  seems  curious  to  sec  what  course  he  would  adopt  in  order 
to  maintain  his  dignity ;  for  not  only  was  the  aged  Vendean 
held  in  high  esteem  by  the  world  at  large,  but,  more  fortunate 
in  this  respect  than  many  fathers,  he  was  appreciated  by  his 
family,  all  the  members  of  AvhirJi  had  recognized  the  solid 
qualities  which  had  enabled  him  to  make  the  fortunes  of  those 
who  were  related  to  him.  Accordingly,  he  was  surrounded  by 
that  profound  respect  which  English  families  and  certain  aris- 
tocratic houses  on  the  continent  entertain  for  the  representative 
of  the  genealogical  ti'ec.  There  was  a  profound  silence,  and 
the  eyes  of  the  assembled  guests  travelled  from  the  proud  and 


214  BALZAC, 

pouting  face  of  the  spoiled  child,  to  the  stern  faces  of  M.  and 
Madame  de  Fontaine. 

"  I  have  left  my  daughter  !6milie  the  mistress  of  her  own 
lot,"  was  the  answer  which  the  Count  de  Fontaine  uttered  in 
his  deepest  tones. 

Thereupon  the  relatives  aud  guests  looked  at  Mademoiselle 
de  Fontaine  with  a  look  in  which  curiosity  was  blended  with 
pity.  The  language  of  the  count  seemed  to  indicate  that 
paternal  kindness  had  been  exhausted  in  the  struggle  with  a 
disposition  known  by  the  family  to  be  incorrigible.  The  sons- 
in-law  murmured,  and  the  brothers  launched  at  their  better 
halves,  sarcastic  smiles.  From  that  moment  no  one  took  any 
further  interest  in  the  marriage  of  the  haughty  girl.  Her  old 
uncle,  in  his  character  as  an  old  sailor,  was  the  only  person 
who  dared  to  encounter  her  broadsides,  and  endure  her  whims, 
and  was  always  ready  to  return  shot  for  shot. 

When  the  fine  weather  had  set  in  and  the  budget  had  been 
voted,  the  De  Fontaine  family,  a  genuine  model  of  the  great 
parliamentary  houses  on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel,  which 
have  a  footing  in  every  ministry,  and  ten  votes  in  the  Commons, 
flew  like  a  nest  of  birds  to  the  lovely  sites  of  Aulnay,  Antony, 
and  Chatenay.  The  opulent  receiver-general  had  recently 
purchased  in  those  regions,  a  country  house  as  a  residence  for 
his  wife,  wl.o  remained  at  Paris  only  during  the  session.  Al 
though  the  beautiful  ]&milie  despised  plebians,  she  did  not 
carry  her  feeling  so  far  as  to  disdain  the  advantages  of  a  fortune 
amassed  by  middle-class  industry.  She,  therefore,  accompanied 
her  sister  to  her  sumptuous  villa,  not  so  much  from  affection 
for  those  members  of  her  family  who  took  refuge  in  it,  as  be- 
cause the  rules  of  good  society  imperiously  demand  that  every 
woman  who  has  even  the  slenderest  self  respect,  should  leave 
Paris  during  summer.  The  verdant  plains  of  Sceaux  admirably 
fulfilled  the  conditions  imposed  by  society,  and  by  the  duties 
of  public  life. 

Since  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  the  fame  of  the  Bal  de 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  215 

Sceaux  has  ever  passed  beyond  the  limits  of  the  department  of 
the  Seine,  we  must  enter  into  some  details  about  this  heb- 
domadal festival,  which  from  its  importance  at  the  time  we  are 
speaking  of,  threatened  to  become  an  institution.  The  environs 
of  the  little  town  of  Sceaux  enjoy  a  reputation  arising  from 
their  sites,  which  are  considered  charming.  It  may  be  that 
they  are  after  all  extremely  common-place,  and  owe  their 
celebrity  merely  to  the  stupidity  of  the  good  citizens  of  Paris, 
who,  when  they  emerge  from  the  gulfs  of  freestone  in  which 
they  are  buried,  would  be  inclined  to  ifdmire  the  plains  of  La 
Beauce.  But  since  the  poetic  shades  of  Aulnay,  the  hills  of 
Antony,  and  the  valley  of  La  Bievre  are  inhabited  by  certain 
travelled  artists,  by  foreigners,  who  are  very  hard  to  please,  and 
by  a  number  of  pretty  women,  who  are  not  wanting  in  good 
taste,  it  is  probable  that  the  Parisians  are  right.  But  Sceaux 
possesses,  for  the  Parisian,  another  attraction  not  less  potent. 
In  the  middle  of  a  garden  commanding  delightful  views,  is  to 
be  found  an  immense  rotunda  open  on  every  side,  but  crowned 
with  a  dome  of  great  lightness  and  extent,  and  supported  by 
pillars.  This  rustic  dais  forms  the  covering  of  a  dancing- 
saloon.  It  rarely  happens  that  even  the  most  starched  gentle 
folks  of  the  neighborhood  do  not  once  or  twice  during  the  sea- 
son pay  a  visit  to  this  palace  of  the  rustic  Terpsichore — either 
in  glittering  cavalcades,  or  in  those  light  and  elegant  vehicles 
which  sprinkle  with  dust  the  philosophic  foot  passenger.  The 
hope  of  seeing  some, women  of  the  upper  ranks,  and  of  being 
seen  by  them ;  the  hope,  less  frequently  betrayed,  of  meeting 
some  young  peasant  girls  (who  are  as  cunning  as  judges), 
draws  to  the  bal  de  Sceaux,  on  Sunday,  swarms  of  attorneys' 
clerks,  of  the  disciples  of  -^sculapius,  and  of  those  young  fel- 
lows whose  fair  skins  and  fresh  complexions  are  preserved  by 
the  damp  atmosphere  of  the  back-shops  of  Paris.  Accordingly 
a  goodly  number  of  bourgeois  marriages  have  been  planned  to 
the  sounds  of  the  orchestra,  which  occupies  the  centre  of  this 


21C  BALZAC. 

circular  saloon.     If  the  roof  could  only  speak,  how  many  love 
stories  it  could  tell ! 

This  interesting  medley  conferred  upon  the  bal  de  Sceaux, 
at  that  time,  a  keener  interest  than  the  other  two  or  three  balls 
in  the  environs  of  Paris  excited ;  and  moreover,  its  rotunda, 
the  beauty  of  the  site,  and  the  attractions  of  the  garden,  gave 
it  an  incontestable  superiority  over  its  rivals.  6milie  was  the 
first  to  exhibit  a  desire  to  go  and  "  do  the  vulgar,"  at  this  gay 
ball  of  the  arrondissement.  She  expected  to  derive  immense 
enjoyment  from  findirJg  herself  in  the  midst  of  such  a  gather- 
ing. Her  wish  to  wander  among  such  a  crowd  created  some 
astonishment ;  but  then  is  not  the  incognito  one  of  the  greatest 
pleasures  of  the  great?  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  found 
amusement  in  picturing  to  herself  all  these  citizen  figures;  she 
imagined  herself  leaving  in  many  a  bourgeois  breast  the  recol- 
lection of  an  enchanting  dance  or  smile,  laughed  beforehand  at 
the  women  who  prided  themselves  on  their  dancing,  and  prepar- 
ed her  crayons  for  the  scenes  with  which  she  expected  to 
enrich  the  pages  of  her  satirical  album.  Sunday  did  not  come 
round  quickly  enough  to  suit  her  impatience.  The  good  com- 
pany from  the  Planat  villa  set  out  on  foot,  so  as  not  to  betray 
the  rank  of  the  party  who  were  about  to  honor  the  ball  with 
their  presence.  They  had  dined  early,  and  the  most  beautiful 
evening  of  that  month  of  May  favored  the  aristocratic  escapade. 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  was  quite  surprised  to  find,  under 
the  roof  of  the  rotunda,  certain  quadrille  parties  composed  of 
persons  who  seemed  to  be  of  good  social  position.  She  saw>. 
it  is  true,  here  and  there,  some  young  men,  who  seemed  to 
have  spent  a  month's  savings  for  the  sake  of  shining  for  a  day 
and  she  observed  several  couples  whose  frank  enjoyment  did 
not  at  all  savor  of  matrimony ;  but  instead  of  reaping  a  harvest 
she  had  to  glean.  It  surprised  her  to  see  that  pleasure  dressed 
in  muslin  was  very  like  pleasure  dressed  in  satin,  and  that  the 
bourgeoisie  danced  as  gracefully  as  the  aristocracy,  and  in 
some  cases  even  better.     Most  of  the  dlesses  were  simple  and 


THE   IJALL  AT  SCEAUX.  217 

worn  with  ease.  Those  who,  in  this  assemblage,  represented 
the  suzerains  of  the  territory,  that  is  to  say,  the  peasants,  con- 
fined themselves  to  their  corners,  with  wonderful  politeness. 

Even  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  had  to  devote  a  certain 
amount  oi  study  to  the  divers  elements  of  which  the  meeting 
was  composed,  before  she  could  discover  any  subject  for  ridi-' 
cule.  But  she  had  neither  time  to  devote  to  her  malicious 
criticism,  nor  leisure  to  listen  to  many  of  those  striking  con- 
versations which  che  caricaturist  hails  with  so  much  delight. 
In  this  vast  field  the  haughty  creature  suddenly  discovered  a 
flower  (the  metaphor  is  seasonable)  whose  splendor  and  whose 
colors  acted  upon  her  imagination  with  all  the  charm  of  novelty. 
It  frequently  happens  to  us,  that  we  look  at  a  dress,  a  wall,  a 
piece  of  white  paper,  with  so  much  abstraction,  that  we  do  not 
at  once  perceive  some  stain  or  some  shining  points  which, 
subsequently,  suddenly  strike  the  eye,  as  if  they  had  appeared 
only  at  the  moment  when  we  are  first  conscious  of  them.  By 
a  sort  of  moral  phenomenon,  very  similar  to  that  which  I  have 
mentioned.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  suddenly  recognized,  in 
a  certain  young  man,  the  type  of  that  exterior  perfection  of 
which  she  had  dreamed  so  long.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine 
had  seated  herself  on  one  of  the  rude  chairs  which  defined  the 
necessary  boundaries  of  the  saloon,  at  the  end  of  the  group 
formed  by  her  family,  so  as  to  be  able  to  follow  the  inclination 
of  the  moment  by  getting  up  and  advancing  as  she  pleased; 
for  she  acted  in  regard  to  the  living  tableaux,  and  the  groups 
presented  to  her  notice  in  the  hall,  just  as  she  would  have  done 
at  an  exhibition  at  the  museum.  She  fixed  her  eye-glasses  on 
a  person  only  two  yards  distant,  and  made  remarks,  just  as  if 
she  was  criticizing  or  praising  a  painted  head,  or  a  picture 
of  genre. 

Her  eye,  after  having  wandered  over  the  vast  animated 
picture,  was  all  at  once  attracted  by  the  face  of  which  I  spoke, 
which  looked  as  if  it  had  been  purposely  stuck  in  a  corner  of 
the  canvas,  in  the  very  best  light,  as  a  figure  out  of  all  proper- 


218  BALZAC. 

tion  with  the  rest.  The  stranger,  who  seemed  absorbed  ana 
solitary,  was  leaning  lightly  against  one  of  the  columns  which 
support  the  roof,  his  arms  were  folded,  and  his  head  drooped, 
as  if  he  had  been  placed  there  to  have  his  portrait  taken.  But 
the  attitude,  though  full  of  elegance  and  pride,  was  perfectly 
free  from  affectation.  There  was  not  the  faintest  gesture  to 
indicate  that,  like  Alexander,  Lord  Byron,  and  other  great  men, 
he  was  presenting  the  three-quarter  face  and  slightly  bending 
his  head,  solely  for  the  purpose  of  attracting  attention.  His 
steady  gaze  in  following  the  movements  of  a  l&dy  who  was 
dancing,  bore  traces  of  some  deep  feeling.  His  elegant  and 
easy  figure  recalled  the  proportions  of  the  Apollo.  His  beau- 
tiful black  hair  curled  naturally  upon  his  lofty  forehead.  At  a 
single  glance  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  perceived  the  fineness 
of  his  linen,  the  newness  of  his  kid  gloves,  which  had  evidently 
come  from  the  best  maker,  and  his  small  feet,  neatly  shod  with 
a  boot  of  Irish  leather.  He  did  not  wear  any  of  those  mean 
trinkets  of  which  the  old  fops  of  the  National  Guard  and  the 
Lovelaces  of  the  counter  are  so  fond,  but  a  black  riband,  to 
which  his  eye-glass  was  attached,  hung  over  his  well-shaped 
waistcoat.  The  exacting  !^milie  had  never  seen  a  man's  eyes 
shaded  by  lashes  so  long  and  strongly  curved.  Love  and 
melancholy  breathed  in  the  face,  with  its  olive-hued  and 
masculine  compelxion.  The  mouth  seemed  ever  ready  to 
smile,  and  raise  the  corners  of  the  eloquent  lips;  but  this 
tendency,  far  from  suggesting  gaiety,  seemed  rather  to  betray 
a  graceful  sadness.  There  was  too  much  promise  in  the  head, 
and  distinction  in  the  bearing,  to  call  forth  the  expression 
"  What  a  fine  man,"  or  "  What  a  good-looking  man."  You 
wanted  to  know  him.  The  most  perspicacious  observer  would 
at  sight  of  the  stranger,  have  been  induced  to  regard  him  as  a 
man  of  talent,  attracted  to  the  village  fete  by  some  powerful 
motive. 

Such  a  mass  of  reflections  did  not  cost  6milie  more  than  a 
moment's  attention,  in  the  course  of  which  this  privileged 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  219 

being,  thus  subjected  to  a  severe  analysis,  became  the  object 
of  a  secret  admiration.  She  did  not  say  to  herself  "  He  must 
be  a  peer  of  France,"  but  "  Oh,  if  he  is  only  noble,  and  he 
cannot  fail  to  be."  She  did  not  finish  her  thought,  but  rose  at 
once,  and,  followed  by  her  brother  the  lieutenant-general,  went 
towards  the  column,  pretending  to  be  watching  the  gay  quad- 
rilles, though  by  an  optical  device  familiar  to  woman,  she  did 
not  miss  a  single  movement  of  the  young  man,  whom  she  was 
approaching.  The  stranger  politely  drew  back,  in  order  to 
make  room  for  the  two  new  comers,  and  took  up  his  position 
against  another  pillar,  ifemilie,  who  was  as  much  annoyed  by 
the  stranger's  politeness  as  she  would  have  been  by  an  act  of 
rudeness,  began  to  talk  to  her  brother  in  a  voice  much  louder 
than  the  canons  of  good  taste  permitted  ;  she  assumed  certain 
aits  de  teie,  and  gesticulated  and  laughed  immoderately,  less  to 
amuse  her  brother  than  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  imper- 
turbable Unknown.  But  all  her  little  artifices  failed.  Then 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  followed  the  direction  of  the  young 
man's  eyes,  and  perceived  the  cause  of  his  indifference. 

In  the  midst  of  the  quadrille,  immediately  in  front  of  her, 
there  was  dancing  a  pale  young  woman,  who  resembled  those 
Scottish  goddesses  introduced  by  Girodet  into  his  grand  com- 
position, Ossian  receiving  the  warriors  of  France.  !^milie 
thought  that  she  recognized  in  the  young  dancer  an  illustrious 
lady,  who  had  lately  taken  up  her  abode  in  a  neighboring 
district.  Her  companion  was  a  youth  of  fifteen,  whose  red 
hands,  nankeen  breeches,  blue  coat,  and  white  shoes,  showed 
that  her  passion  for  dancing  prevented  her  from  being  fastidi- 
ous in  the  matter  of  partners.  Her  movements  showed  no 
trace  of  her  apparent  weakness,  but  a  slight  flush  was  already 
visible  in  her  pale  cheeks  and  her  complexion  was  beginning  to 
grow  more  lively.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  drew  near  to 
the  quadrille  party,  in  order  to  examine  the  strange  lady  as  she 
returned  to  her  place,  while  her  ins  d  vis  executed  the  same 
figure.     But  the  Unknown  came  up,  and  bending  over  the 


220  BALZAC 

pretty  dancer,  said  in  a  voice  at  once  gentle  and  commanding, 
"  Clara,  my  child,  don't  dance  any  more,"  words  which  were 
distinctly  overheard  by  the  inquisitive  6milie.  Clara  pouted 
a  little,  bowed  her  head  in  token  of  obedience,  and  then 
smiled.  After  the  termination  of  the  quadrille,  the  young 
man  showed  all  the  attention  of  a  lover  in  covering  the  young 
girl's  shoulders  with  a  Cashmere  shawl,  and  placing  her  in  a 
position  where  she  would  be  sheltered  from  the  wind.  Then, 
soon  afterwards,  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  seeing  them  quit 
their  seats,  and  walk  round  the  enclosure,  as  people  do  when 
about  to  depart,  contrived  to  follow  them,  under  the  pretence 
of  admiring  the  various  views  from  the  garden.  Her  brother 
lent  himself,  with  a  mischievous  good  humor,  to  the  vagaries 
of  the  somewhat  devious  march.  !]femilie  then  caught  sight  of 
the  handsome  couple,  getting  into  an  elegant  Tilbury,  which 
had  been  left  under  the  care  of  a  liveried  and  mounted  ser- 
vant. Just  at  the  moment  when  the  young  man,  having  taken 
his  seat,  was  adjusting  the  reins,  ]&milie  first  encountered  from 
him  one  of  those  careless  glances  which  one  directs  at  a  large 
crowd,  and  then  she  had  the  slight  satisfaction  of  seeing  him 
look  back  twice ;  an  example  which  the  young  lady  followed. 
Was  it  through  jealousy  ? 

"  I  presume  that  you  have  now  seen  enough  of  the  garden, 
and  that  we  can  go  back  to  the  ball,"  said  her  brother. 

"  I  am  quite  willing,"  she  replied.  "  Do  you  think  that  she 
is  a  young  relative  of  Lady  Dudley?" 

"  Lady  Dudley  may  have  a  young  relative  staying  with  her; 
but  certainly  not  a  young  female  relative  !"  said  the  Baron  de 
Fontaine. 

The  next  day  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  displayed  an  incli- 
nation for  a  'ride.  She  gradually  accustomed  her  old  uncle 
and  her  brothers  to  accompany  her  in  sundry  morning  rides, 
which,  she  said,  were  very  conducive  to  her  health.  She  ex- 
hibited a  marked  predilection  for  the  vicinity  of  the  village 
inhabited  by  Lady  Dudley.      But  in  spite  of  her  cavaby 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  221 

manoeuvres,  she  did  not  catch  sight  of  the  stranger  again  so 
speedily  as  the  glad  research,  to  which  she  abandoned  herself, 
induced  her  to  hope.  She  returned  on  several  occasions  to 
the  Bal  de  Sceaux  without  meeting  there  the  young  English- 
man, who  had  fallen  from  heaven  to  tyrannize  over  and  adorn 
her  dreams. 

Although  nothing  spurs  the  rising  passion  of  a  young  girl  so 
much  as  an  obstacle,  there  came  a  moment,  nevertheless,  when 
ifemilie  de  Fontaine,  almost  despairing  of  the  success  of  an 
enterprise,  whose  eccentricity  will  give  some  idea  of  the 
hardihood  of  her  character,  was  on  the  point  of  giving  up  her 
strange  and  clandestine  pursuit. 

She  might,  indeed,  have  wandered  for  a  long  time  around 
the  village  of  Chatenay  without  again  seeing  her  Unknown ; 
for  the  youthful  Clara,  since  such  was  the  name  which  Made- 
moiselle de  Fontaine  had  overheard,  was  not  an  English- 
woman, and  the  supposed  stranger  did  not  inhabit  the  flowery 
and  perfumed  groves  of  Chatenay. 

One  evening  Emilia,  having  gone  out  for  a  ride  with  her 
uncle,  to  whom  the  gout  had  granted,  during  the  fine  weather, 
a  considerable  cessation  of  hostilities,  met  Lady  Dudley. 
Seated  in  the  open  carriage,  by  the  side  of  the  illustrious  for- 
eigner, was  Monsieur  de  Vandenesse.  Emilie  recognized  the 
handsome  pair,  and  her  suspicions  were  dissolved,  as  a  dream 
dissolves, — in  a  moment. 

Vexed,  as  any  woman  who  had  been  foiled,  would  be,  she 
turned  rein  so  rapidly  that  her  old  uncle  had  the  greatest 
possible  difficulty  in  following  her ;  so  great  was  the  speed  to 
which  she  had  urged  her  pony. 

"  It  would  seem  that  I  have  grown  too  old  to  understand 
these  brains  of  twenty,"  said  the  old  sailor  to  himself,  as  he 
put  his  horse  to  a  gallop,  **  or  perhaps  the  young  folks  of  to-day 
are  not  like  what  they  used  to  be.  But  what  can  be  the  mat- 
ter with  my  niece  ?  now  she  is  walking  her  pony  as  quietly  as 
a  gendarme  patroling  the  streets  of  Paris.     One  would  think 


222  BALZAC. 

that  she  wants  to  beset  that  worthy  bourgeois,  who  looks  to  me 
like  an  author  dreaming  over  his  verses,  for  he  seems  to  have 
an  album  in  his  hand.  On  my  word,  I  am  a  great  dolt.  Isn't 
it  the  young  man  we  are  in  search  of?  " 

As  this  thought  struck  him,  the  old  sailor  checked  his  horse's 
pace,  in  order  to  place  himself  noiselessly  at  his  niece's  side. 
The  vice-admiral  had  been  gnilty  of  too  many  peccadilloes  in 
in  1 771  and  the  following  years,  a  period  in  our  annals  when 
gallantry  was  in  vogue,  not  to  perceive  at  a  glance  that  Emilie 
had  by  the  greatest  chance,  met  the  stranger  of  the  Bal  de 
Sceaux. 

In  spite  of  the  veil  which  old  age  had  spread  over  his  grey 
eyes,  the  Count  de  Kergaroiiet  could  recognize  signs  of  un- 
usual excitement  in  his  niece,  notwithstanding  the  immo- 
bility of  feature  which  she  endeavored  to  assume. 

The  penetrating  eyes  of  the  young  lady  were  fixed  in  a  kind 
of  stupor  upon  the  stranger,  who  was  walking  quietly  before 
her. 

"  Just  so,"  said  the  sailor  to  himself,  "  she  will  follow  him, 
like  a  pirate  after  a  merchantman.  And  when  she  has  lost 
sight  of  him,  she  will  be  in  a  state  of  despair  at  not  knowing 
who  and  what  her  lover  is,  and  whether  he  is  a  marquis  or  a 
shopkeeper.  Truly,  young  folks  ought  always  to  have  an  old 
periwig  like  me  at  their  elbows." 

He  all  at  once,  and  without  any  warning,  urged  on  his  horse 
so  as  to  make  his  niece's  start  off  also,  and  then  rode  so  quickly 
between  her  and  the  young  pedestrian,  that  the  latter  was 
forced  to  take  refuge  on  the  sloping  turf  which  bordered  the 
road.  Checking  his  horse  suddenly,  the  count  cried  out, — 
"  Couldn't  you  have  got  out  of  the  way  V 
"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  replied  the  stranger.  "  I  did  not  know 
that  it  was  for  ffie  to  apologize  to  you,  for  your  having  very 
nearly  knocked  me  down." 

**  Well,  let's  drop  the  subject,  my  friend,"  replied  the  sailor, 
in  a  voice  whose  sneering  tone  was  positively  insulting. 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  223 

At  the  same  time  the  count  raised  his  whip  as  if  to  lash  his 
horse,  and  touching  the  shoulder  of  his  interlocutor  said, — 

"  I'he  liberal  bourgeois  is  a  reasoner,  and  every  reasoner 
should  be  prudent !" 

The  young  fellow  mounted  the  slope  when  he  heard  this 
sarcasm  ;  then  crossing  his  arras,  he  replied  in  feeling  tones, — 

"  I  cannot  think,  when  I  look  at  your  white  hair,  that  you 
still  find  amusement  in  picking  quarrels    .     .     .     ." 

"  White  hair,"  cried  the  sailor,  interrupting  him,  "  you  lie  in 
your  throat,  it  is  only  grey." 

A  dispute  thus  commenced,  waxed  so  warm  in  a  few  seconds 
that  the  younger  adversary  forgot  the  tone  of  moderation  which 
he  had  constrained  himself  to  preserve.  At  the  moment  when 
the  Count  de  Kergarouet  saw  his  niece  approaching  them,  and 
exhibiting  every  symptom  of  lively  apprehension,  he  gave  his 
name  to  his  antagonist,  asking  him  to  say  nothing  in  the  pre- 
sence of  the  young  lady,  who  was  under  his  escort.  The 
stranger  could  not  repress  a  smile,  and  gave  his  card  to  the 
old  sailor,  telling  him  at  the  same  time  that  he  was  living  in  a 
country-house  at  Chevreuse,  which  he  pointed  out  and  then 
made  off. 

"You  very  nearly  injured  that  poor  pequin,  niece,"  said  the 
count,  hastening  to  meet  Emilie.  "  Have  you  forgotten  how 
to  manage  your  horse  ?  You  leave  me  stuck  there  to  compro- 
mise my  dignity  in  an  endeavor  to  cover  your  follies ;  whereas, 
had  you  remained,  a  single  glance  from  you,  or  one  of  those 
pretty  speeches  which  you  can  make  so  well  when  you  are  not 
impertinent,  would  have  set  everything  right,  even  had  you 
broken  his  arm." 

"  Why,  my  dear  uncle,  it  was  your  horse,  not  mine,  that 
caused  the  accident.  I  really  believe  that  you  have  lost  the 
art  of  riding,  you  are  no  longer  so  good  a  horseman  as  you 
were  last  year.     But  instead  of  discussing  trifles — " 

"  Trifles,  by  Jingo  !  you  call  it  a  trifle  for  a  fellow  to  be  inso- 
lent to  your  uncle  ?" 


224  BALZA.C. 

"  Ought  we  not  to  go  and  find  out  whether  the  young  man 
is  hurt  ?     He  is  limping,  uncle,  see  there  !" 

"  No,  no  !  he  is  running.     Ah,  I  gave  him  a  rough  lecture  1" 

"  Ah,  uncle,  that  is  you  all  over  !" 

"  Nay,  nay,  niece,"  said  the  count,  stopping  ifcmilie's  horse 
by  laying  hold  of  the  bridle.  "  I  don't  see  the  necessity  of 
making  advances  to  some  shopkeeper,  who  ought  to  deem 
himself  only  too  fortunate  in  having  been  knocked  down  by  a 
charming  young  lady,  or  by  the  commander  of  *  La  Belle 
Poule.' " 

"  Why  do  you  take  him  to  be  a  roturier,  my  dear  uncle  ?  It 
seems  to  me  that  he  has  very  distinguished  manners." 

*'  Oh,  everybody  has  good  manners,  now-a-days,  niece." 

"  No,  uncle,  everybody  has  not  the  air  and  manner  which  the 
habit  of  frequenting  good  society  confers,  and  I  would  gladly 
make  a  bet  with  you,  that  this  young  fellow  is  a  man  of  family." 

"  You  have  not  had  much  time  to  examine  him." 

"  But  this  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  seen  him." 

"No,  nor  the  first  time  that  you  have  tried  to  find  him  !" 
replied  the  admiral,  laughing. 

JEmilie  blushed ;  her  uncle  enjoyed  leaving  her  for  some 
time  to  her  embarrassment,  and  then  said  to  her, — 

"  6milie,  you  know  that  I  love  you  as  much  as  if  you  were 
my  own  child,  just  because  you  are  the  only  one  of  the  family 
who  possesses  that  legitimate  pride  which  high  birth  confers. 
Who  the  deuce,  my  dear  grandniece,  would  have  thought  that 
good  principles  would  become  so  rare  ?  Well,  I  want  to  be 
your  confidant.  Now,  I  see,  my  darling,  that  this  young  gen 
tleman  is  not  quite  an  object  of  indifference  to  you.  But, 
they  would  have  the  laugh  of  us  in  the  family  if  we  set  sail 
under  an  unworthy  flag ;  you  know  what  that  means ;  therefore 
let  me  assist  you,  niece.  Let  us  keep  our  own  counsel,  and  I 
promise  to  produce  him  in  the  midst  of  your  assemblies." 

«  When,  uncle  ?" 

"  To-morrow." 


THE  BALL  AT  SGEAUX.  225 

"  But,  dear  uncle,  I  am  not  to  be  fettered  in  any  way  ?" 
'Not  at  all;  and  you  may  bombard  him,  set  fire  to  him^ 
and  turn  him  adrift  like  an  old  carack,  if  such  be  your  good 
pleasure.     He  won't  be  the  first  that  you  have  served  so,  eh  ?" 

"  You  are  kind,  uncle  !  " 

As  soon  as  the  count  reached  home  he  put  on  his  spectacles^ 
quietly  drew  the  card  from  his  pocket,  and  read  "  Maximiliea 
Longueville,  Rue  du  Sentier," 

"  Set  your  mind  at  rest,  my  dear  niece,"  said  he  to  ifemilie,. 
"  you  may  harpoon  him  in  all  tranquillity  of  mind  ;  he  belongs 
to  one  of  our  historic  families,  and  if  he  be  not  a  peer  of  France- 
he  will  infallibly  become  one." 

'*  How  do  you  know  all  that  ?  " 

*'  Ah,  that  is  my  secret." 

"  You  know  his  name  then." 

The  count  silently  inclined  his  grey  head,  which  bore  no- 
faint  resemblance  to  the  trunk  of  some  old  oak,  around  which- 
a  few  leaves,  withered  by  autumnal  frosts,  are  fluttering.  At 
this  signal,  ifemilie  began  to  exert  the  ever-budding  power  of 
her  coquetry.  Experienced  in  the  art  of  cajoling  the  old  sail- 
or, she  showered  upon  him  the  most  childlike  caresses  and  the 
tenderest  words ;  she  even  went  so  far  as  to  kiss  him,  in  order 
to  extort  from  him  the  revelation  of  so  weighty  a  secret.  The  old 
man,  who  passed  his  existance  in  getting  his  niece  to  act  scenes 
of  this  description,  and  very  often  rewarded  her  with  the  price 
of  a  dress,  or  by  giving  up  his  box  at  the  opera  for  her  use,  took 
a  delight  on  this  peculiar  occasion  in  being  entreated,  and  es- 
pecially kissed.  But,  as  he  protracted  his  enjoyment  too  long, 
Emilie  grew  angry,  changed  her  caresses  for  sarcasms,  and 
sulked.  Then  conquered  by  her  curiosity,  she  returned  to  the 
ittack.  The  diplomatic  sailor  extracted  from  his  niece  a  sol- 
emn promise,  to  be  for  the  future  more  reserved,  more  docile 
ind  less  headstrong ;  to  spend  less,  and  above  all  to  tell  him 
everything.  This  treaty  having  been  concluded  and  sealed 
ith  a  kifs  imprinted  on  Emilie's  white  forehead,  he  led  he 
o 


220*  BALZAC. 

to  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room,  set  her  on  his  knee,,  placed 
his  two  thumbs  upon  the  card  so  as  to  hide  it,  and  then  letter  by 
letter,  disclosed  the  name  of  Longueville,  obstinately  refusing 
to  let  her  see  anything  more.  This  circumstance  intensified 
the  secret  feeling  of  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  who,  during  a 
large  portion  of  the  night,  conjured  up  the  briglitest  pictures  of 
those  dreams,  on  which  her  aspirations  had  been  fed.  At  last, 
thanks  to  that  chance  which  she  had  often  prayed  for,  6milie 
now  saw  something  very  different  from  a  mere  chimera  at  the  root 
of  the  imaginary  riches  with  which  she  gilded  her  matrimonial 
future.  Like  all  young  women  who  are  ignorant  of  the  dan- 
gers that  wait  on  love  and  marriage,  she  grew  enthusiastic 
over  the  treacherous  externals  of  marriage  and  of  love.  Or,  in 
other  words,  her  passion  sprang  up  as  all  these  fancies  of  early 
youth  do  spring — sweet,  cruel  errors  which  exercise  so  sinister 
an  influence  on  such  young  girls  as  are  inexperienced  enough  to 
assume  the  whole  burden  of  providing  for  their  future  happiness. 

The  next  morning,  before  ;6milie  was  awake,  her  uncle  had 
made  an  excursion  to  Chevreuse.  Finding  the  young  man 
whom,  on  the  preceding  evening,  he  had  so  persistently  insult- 
ed, standing  in  the  court  of  an  elegant  villa,  he  accosted  him 
with  the  affectionate  politeness  characteristic  of  the  gentlemen 
of  the  old  French  court. 

"  Well,  my  dear  sir,  who  would  have  ventured  to  tell  me  that  ' 
at  the  age  of  seventy-three  I  should  involve  myself  in  a  duel 
with  the  son,  or  perhaps  the  grandson  of  one  of  my  best  friends? 
I  am  a  vice-admiral,  sir,  and  that  is  equivalent  to  telling  you  that 
I  think  as  little  of  a  duel  as  I  do  of  smoking  a  cigar.  In  my 
time,  two  young  fellows  could  never  strike  up  an  intimacy  with- 
out having  first  seen  the  color  of  each  other's  blood.  But, 
zounds,  yesterday,  in  my  capacity  of  an  old  sailor,  I  had  taken 
a  little  too  much  rum  on  board  and  ran  foul  of  you.  There  is 
my  hand ;  I  would  rather  receive  a  hundred  rebuffs  from  a 
Longueville,  than  cause  his  family  the  slightest  grief." 

Whatever  coolness  the  young  man  constrained  himself  to 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  227 

throw  into  his  bearing  towards  the  Count  de  KergaroUet,  he 
could  not  long  withstand  the  frank  good  nature  of  his  manner, 
and  suffered  the  old  man  to  shake  him  by  the  hand. 

"You  were  just  going  for  a  ride,"  said  the  count.  "Don't 
let  me  interfere  with  you.  But,  unless  your  arrangements  are 
made,  come  with  me  and  dine  at  the  Planat  Lodge  to-day.  My 
nephew,  the  Count  de  Fontaine,  is  a  man  whom  it  is  essential 
to  know.  Ah,  I  intend  to  indemnify  you  for  my  rudeness,  by 
introducing  you  to  five  of  the  prettiest  women  in  Paris.  Yes, 
yes,  young  man,  your  brow  unknits  itself  now.  I  am  fond  of 
young  men,  and  I  like  t©  see  them  happy.  Their  happiness 
recalls  to  me  the  joyous  hours  of  my  early  days,  when  there 
were  plenty  of  love  affairs  as  well  as  duels.  We  were  gay  in 
those  times.  Now-a-days  ycu  philosophize  and  take  everything 
seriously,  as  if  there  had  been  no  such  thing  as  a  fifteenth  or 
sixteenth  century," 

"But,  sir,  are  we  not  right?  The  sixteenth  century  gave 
only  religious  liberty  to  Europe,  and  the  nineteenth  will  give  it 
political  lib — " 

"  Oh,  don't  let  us  talk  politics.  I  am  a  blockhead  of  an 
ultra,  look  you.  But  I  d«n't  want  to  prevent  young  folks  from 
being  revolutionists,  so  long  as  they  leave  the  king  at  liberty  to 
disperse  their  mobs." 

When  they  had  gone  a  little  farther,  and  the  count  and  his 
youthful  companion  were  in  the  middle  of  the  wood,  the  sailor 
singled  out  a  young  birch-tree,  pulled  his  horse  up,  and  took 
out  one  of  his  pistols  :  the  ball  lodged  in  the  centre  of  the  tree, 
which  was  fifteen  paces  distant. 

"  You  see,  my  dear  fallow,  that  I  do  not  fear  a  duel,"  said 
he,  looking  at  M.  Longueville  with  comic  gravity. 

"Nor  I  either,"  replied  the  latter,  who  cocking  his  pistol 
promptly,  and  taking  aim  at  the  hole  made  by  the  count's  bull- 
et, lodged  his  own  close  to  it. 

"  Now  that  is  what  I  call  well  a  tjainofi  youth,"  said  tlie  sailor 
with  a  kind  of  enthusiasm. 


228  BALZAC. 

During  his  ride  with  the  young  man,  whom  he  already  look- 
ed on  as  his  nephew,  he  found  a  thousand  opportunities  for  in- 
terrogating him  about  all  those  trifles,  perfect  familiarity  with 
which  constituted,  ascording  to  his  particular  code,  an  accom- 
plished gentleman. 
1    "  Are  you  in  debt?  "  he  inquired,  after  many  questions. 

•*  No  sir." 

"  What,  do  you  mean  to  say  you  pay  all  your  tradesmen?  " 

"  Punctually,  sir ;  otherwise  we  should  lose  all  credit  and 
forfeit  all  respect." 

"  But  at  least  you  have  several  mistresses  ?  Ah — you  blush, 
my  friend.  Manners  have  greatly  changed.  With  these  ideas  o! 
legal  order,  Kantism,  and  liberty, )  outh  has  been  spoiled.  You 
have  no  Guimard,  no  Duthe,  no  creditors,  and  are  quite  ignorant 
of  heraldry.  Why,  my  young  friend,  you  are  not  educated  I  Look 
you  he  who  does  not  sow  his  wild  oats  in  spring,  sows  them  in 
winter.  If  I  am  now,  at  the  age  of  seventy,  in  receipt  of  an 
income  of  So,coo  francs,  it  is  because  I  spent  the«capital  which 
would  producb  it: — when  I  was  thirty — oh,  with  my  wife  in  all 
honor  and  good  faith.  Your  imperfections,  however,  shall  not 
deter  me  from  presenting  you  at  Planat  Lodge.  Bear  in  mind 
that  you  have  promised  me  to  come  thitjier,  and  I  shall  look 
forward  to  seeing  you  there." 

*'  What  a  funny  little  old  man,"  said  young  Longueville  to 
himself.  '"'  He  is  brisk  and  gay ;  but  for  all  his  efforts  to  ap- 
pear such  a  jolly  good  fellow,  I  shall  not  place  too  much  confi- 
dence in  him. 

The  next  day,  at  about  four  o'clock,  when  the  company 
were  scattered,  some  in  the  drawing-room,  and  some  in  the 
billiard-room,  a  servant  announced  to  the  inmates  of  Planat 
Lodge,  "Monsieur  de  Longueville." 

At  the  name  of  the  favorite  of  the  old  Count  de  Kergaroiict, 
every  one,  even  the  billiard-player  who  ran  the  risk  of  losing  a 
hazard,  rushed  forward,  as  much  with  a  view  to  studying  the 
face  of  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  as  to  forming  an  opinion  oJ 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  229 

the  human  phoenix  who  had  obtained  "  honorable  mention  ** 
at  the  expense  of  so  many  competitors.  A  dress  as  elegant  as 
it  was  simple,  manners  full  of  ease,  polished  habits,  "  sweet 
voice  that  possessed  a  timbre  which  reached  the  heart-strings 
and  caused  them  to  vibrate,  all  combined  to  win  for  Monsieur 
Longueville  the  good  will  of  the  whole  family.  He  seemed  no 
stranger  to  the  luxury  which  reigned  in  the  abode  of  the  pom- 
pous receiver-general.  Although  he  talked  like  a  man  of  the 
world,  it  was  obvious  to  every  one  that  he  had  received  the 
most  brilliant  training,  and  that  his  acquirements  were  as  solid 
as  they  were  extensive.  In  a  light  discussion  about  naval 
architecture,  which  was  started  by  the  old  sailor,  Longueville 
hit  upon  the  right  words  so  readily  that  one  of  the  ladies 
pointed  out  that  he  seemed  to  have  been  educated  at  the  6cole 
Polytechnique. 

"  I  consider,  madame,"  rephed  he,  that  one  may  regard  it  as 
an  honorable  distinction  to  have  been  there." 

In  spite  of  much  pressing,  he  politely  but  firmly  opposed 
their  wish  to  keep  him  to  dinner,  and  put  a  stop  to  the  obser- 
vations of  the  ladies  by  saying,  that  he  was  a  Hippocrates  of  a 
young  sister,  whose  delicate  health  required  great  attention. 

'•  You  are,  no  doubt,  a  doctor  ?  "  inquired  one  of  Emilie's 
sisters-in-law,  ironically. 

"  The  gentleman  has  just  left  the  Ecole  Polytechnique," 
replied  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  graciously,  (Her  face  had 
assumed  its  richest  tints  when  she  learned  that  the  young  girl 
she  had  seen  at  the  ball  was  M.  Longueville's  sister.) 

"  But,  my  dear,  it  is  possible  to  be  a  doctor,  and  yet  to  have 
been  at  the  ^ifecole  Polytechnique ;  is  is  not  sir  ?" 

"  There  is  no  obstacle  whatever,  madame,"  replied  the  young 
man. 

Every  eye  was  directed  at  Emilie,  who,  at  those  words,  looked 
at  the  engaging  stranger  with  a  sort  of  uneasy  curiosity.  She 
breathed  more  freely  when  he  added,  not  without  a  smile,  " 
have  not  the  honor,  madame,  to  be  a  doctor,  and  have  even 


230  BALZAU. 

declined  to  enter  the  service  of  roads  and  bridges,  in  order  to 
preserve  my  independence." 

"  And  you  did  well,"  said  the  count.  "  But  how  could  you 
consider  it  an  honor  to  be  a  doctor?  "  added  the  noble  Breton. 
"  Oh,  my  young  friend,  for  a  man  like  you — " 

"  Monsieur  le  comte,  I  have  an  infinite  respect  for  every 
profession  v/hich  has  a  useful  end  in  view." 

"  Oh,  we  are  quite  agreed ;  you  respect  such  professions 
much  in  the  same  way  as  a  young  man  respects  a  dowager." 

The  visit  of  M.  Longueville  was  neither  too  long  nor  too 
short.  He  withdrew  at  the  moment  when  he  perceived  that 
he  had  created  a  favorable  impression  upon  every  one,  and 
that  every  one's  curiosity  was  awakened  about  him. 

"  He's  a  knowing  fellow,"  said  the  count  on  returning  to  the 
drawing-room  after  shewing  him  to  the  door. 

Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  who  alone  was  in  the  secret  ol 
this  visit,  had  dressed  herself  with  such  tasteful  care  as  might 
have  attracted  the  notice  of  the  young  man ;  but  she  had  to 
undergo  the  slight  mortification  of  observing  that  he  did  not 
devote  to  her  so  much  attention  as  she  thought  she  deserved. 
Her  family  were  very  much  surprised  at  her  reticence.  As  a 
rule,  6mil«e  displayed  on  behalf  of  a  new  comer  her  coquetry, 
her  witty  chit-chat,  and  the  inexhaustible  eloquence  of  her  looks 
and  attitudes.  Whether  it  were  that  the  melodious  accents 
and  bewitching  manners  of  the  young  man  had  acted  as  a 
charm  upon  her,  that  she  was  seriously  in  love,  and  that  that 
feeling  had  worked  a  change  in  her,  or  not, — her  bearing  was 
now  entirely  free  from  affectation.  In  her  simplicity  and 
naturalness  she  was  sure  to  appear  more  beautiful  than  before. 
Some  of  her  sisters  and  an  old  lady  who  was  a  friend  of  the 
family  saw  in  her  conduct  a  refinement  of  coquetry.  They 
supposed  that,  deeming  the  young  man  a  worthy  mate  for  her, 
]£milie  intended,  perhaps,  to  unfold  her  excellences  gradually, 
in  order  to  dazzle  him  all  at  once,  at  the  moment  when  she 
should  have  won  his  heart.     Every  member  of  the  family  was 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  231 

anxious  to  know  what  the  capricious  girl  thought  of  the 
strange! ;  but  when,  during  dinner,  they  all  amused  themselves 
by  endowing  M,  Longueville  with  some  new  quality,  each  pre- 
tending to  be  the  first  to  have  discovered  it.  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  was  for  some  time  silent.  A  gentle  sarcasm  from  her 
uncle  suddenly  aroused  her  from  her  apathy.  She  said,  in  a 
very  epigrammatic  fashion,  that  this  celestial  perfection  must 
needs  cover  some  grave  defect,  and  that  she  would  take  good 
care  not  to  form  at  the  first  glance  an  opinion  of  a  man  so 
skilful.  "  Those  who  thus  please  everybody  please  no  one," 
she  added,  "  and  the  worst  of  all  defects  is  to  be  free  from 
all."  Like  all  young  women  when  they  love,  ^milie  nourished 
the  hope  that  she  would  be  able  to  hide  her  feeling  in  the 
bottom  of  her  heart,  by  deceiving  the  Arguses  by  whom  she 
was  surrounded ;  but  at  the  expiration  of  a  fortnight,  not  a  single 
member  of  that  numerous  family  was  uninitiated  in  the  little 
domestic  secret.  At  the  third  visit  paid  by  M.  Longueville, 
i^milie  was  convinced  that  she  was  in  great  measure  the  source 
of  it.  This  discovery  caused  her  a  pleasure  so  intoxicating, 
that  she  was  astonished  at  it  when  she  reflected  on  it.  It 
wounded  her  pride.  Accustomed  as  she  was  to  make  herself  the 
centre  of  the  world,  she  was  now  compelled  to  acknowledge  the 
existence  of  a  force  which  dragged  her  out  of  herself ;  she  tried  to 
rebel,  but  she  could  not  dismiss  from  her  heart  the  enchanting 
image  of  the  young  man.  Then  came  many  an  anxious  thought. 
Two  of  M.  de  Longueville's  qualities,  his  unlooked-for  modesty 
and  his  discretion*,  were  very  fatal  to  the  general  curiosity.  He 
never  talked  of  himself  or  his  pursuits,  or  his  family. 

The  adroit  innuendoes  with  which  l^milie  interspersed  her 
conversation,  and  the  traps  she  laid  in  order  to  extract  from 
the  young  man  some  personal  details,  he  evaded  and  avoided 
with  all  the  skill  of  a  diplomatist  who  wants  to  conceal  his 
policy.  If  she  talked  about  pictures,  M.  longueville  answered 
her  in  the  language  of  a  connoisseur.  If  she  played,  the  young 
man  showed  without  conceit  that  he  was  no  mean  performer 


232  BALZAC. 

on  the  piano.  One  evening  he  charmed  the  whole  company  by 
uniting  his  voice  with  i^milie's  in  one  of  the  fine  duets  of  Cima- 
rosa ;  but  when  they  tried  to  find  out  whether  he  was  a  profes- 
sional musician,  he  joked  upon  the  subject  with  so  good  a  grace, 
that  he  made  it  impossible  for  these  ladies,  who  had  had  so 
much  experience  in  the  art  of  probing  the  feelings,  to  discover  to 
what  sphere  of  society  he  belonged.  No  matter  what  hardi- 
hood the  old  uncle  displayed  in  throwing  the  grappling-irons 
upon  this  vessel,  Longueville  adroitly  stole  away,  so  as  to  pre- 
serve the  charm  of  mystery ;  and  it  was  all  the  more  easy  for 
him  to  maintain  the  character  of  "  The  handsome  stranger  " 
at  Planat  Lodge,  inasmuch  as  there  inquisitiveness  never, 
exceeded  the  limit  of  politeness.  Emilie,  who  was  tortured  by 
this  reserve,  hoped  to  be  more  successful  with  the  sister  than 
with  the  brother,  in  regard  to  confidences  of  that  kind. 
Backed  by  her  uncle,  who  understood  tactics  of  this  sort,  as 
well  as  he  did  the  art  of  seamanship,  ]6milie  endeavored  to 
bring  upon  the  stage  the  character,  as  yet  silent,  of  Mademoi- 
selle Clara  Longueville.  The  company  at  the  lodge  soon 
manifested  the  strongest  desire  to  become  acquainted  with  so 
amiable  a  person,  and  to  contribute  to  her  amusement.  A 
dance  was  pro])osed  and  accepted.  The  ladies  did  not  entirely 
despair  of  getting  a  young  girl  of  sixteen  to  talk. 

In  spite,  however,  of  such  little  clouds,  created  by  curiosity 
and  massed  by  suspicion,  a  brilliant  ray  penetrated  the  heart 
of  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  who  found  great  delight  in  exist- 
ence by  connecting  it  with  a  being  other  than  herself  She 
began  to  understand  social  relations. 

Whether  it  be  that  happiness  improves  us,  or  whether  it  were 
that  Emilie  was  too  much  engaged  to  torment  others,  she 
became  less  caustic,  more  indulgent,  and  more  gentle.  The 
alteration  in  her  character  delighted  her  wondering  relatives. 
Perchance,  after  all,  her  egotism  was  being  metamorj)hosed  into 
love.  To  await  the  arrival  of  her  retiring  and  unacknowledged 
admirer,  was  a  profound  delight.    Without  a  single  word  of 


THE  BALL  AT   SCEAUK.  230 

passion  having  been  breathed  between  them,  Kmilie  knew  that 
she  was  loved  ;  and  great  was  her  pleasure  in  skilfully  inducing 
the  young  man  to  exhibit  the  treasures  of  that  knowledge 
which  proved  its  own  variety.  She  remarked  that  she  also  was 
the  object  of  careful  observation,  and  thereupon  she  tried  to 
overcome  all  the  defects  which  her  training  had  allowed  to 
grow  up  in  her.  Was  not  this  a  first  homage  offered  to  love, 
and  a  cruel  reproach  addressed  by  herself  to  herself?  She 
wished  to  please  and  charm ;  she  loved  and  was  idolized.  Her 
family,  knowing  that  her  pride  was  an  ample  protection, 
allowed  her  sufficient  freedom  to  enable  her  to  taste  those  little 
childish  joys,  which  gave  so  much  charm  and  so  much  strength 
to  early  love.  Often  did  the  young  man  and  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  tread  alone,  but  for  each  other's  comp;t.ny,  the  alleys 
of  the  park  in  which  nature  was  decked  by  art,  like  a  woman 
dressed  for  a  ball.  Often  did  they  hold  together  those  aimless 
and  featureless  conversations  whose  emptiest,  idlest  phrases  are 
precisely  those  which  contain  the  greatest  amount  of  hidden 
feeling.  Often  did  they  admire,  in  each  other's  company,  the 
setting  sun,  with  its  rich  tints.  They  gathered  daisies  only  to 
tear  them  to  pieces,  and  sang  the  most  passionate  duets 
together,  employing  the  notes  of  Pergolese  or  Rossini 
as  faithful  interpreters  for  the  expression  of  their  secret 
thoughts. 

The  ball-day  came ;  Clara  I.ongueville  and  her  brother, 
whom  the  footman  would  persist  in  decorating  with  the  particle 
which  indicates  nobility,  were  the  heroes  of  the  occasion.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  witnessed 
the  triumph  of  a  young  lady  with  delight.  She  showered  upon 
Clara  in  all  sincerity  those  graceful  endearments  and  minute 
attentions  which  women  do  not  generally  bestow  upon  one  an- 
other, except  for  the  purpose  of  exciting  the  jealousy  of  men. 
Emilie  had  an  object  in  view ;  she  wanted  to  elicit  secrets 
unawares.  But,  as  being  a  girl.  Mademoiselle  Longueville 
showed,  more  deftness  and  ingenuity  than  her  brother ;  for  she 


234!  BAI,ZAC. 

was  discreet  without  even  seeming  to  be  so,  and  managed  to 
exclude  the  subjects  of  material  interests  from  the  conversa- 
tion, while  at  the  same  time  she  invested  it  with  so  great  a 
a  charm,  that  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  conceived  a  kind  of 
envy  of  her,  and  surnamed  her  the  siren.  Whereas  l&milie  had 
intended  to  make  Clara  chatter,  it  was  .Clara  who  subjected  her 
to  an  interrogatory.  She  wanted  to  judge  Clara  and  Clara 
judged  her.  She  was  often  vexed  with  herself  for  having  per- 
mitted her  character  to  leak  out  through  certain  answers  mis- 
chievously extorted  from  her  by  Clara,  whose  air  of  candor  and 
of  modesty  dissipated  every  suspicion  of  design. 

On  one  occasion,  J&milie  could  not  hide  her  annoyance  at 
having  allowed  herself  to  be  provoked  by  Clara  into  a  sally 
against  rotouriers. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  that  charming  creature,  "  I  have  heard 
Maximilien  talk  about  you  so  much  that  from  love  for  him,  I 
felt  the  strongest  desire  to  know  you  ;  but  is  not  a  desire  to 
know  you  a  desire  to  love  you  ?  " 

*'  My  dear  Clara,  I  was  afraid  I  should  displease  you  in  talk, 
ing  thus  of  those  who  are  not  of  noble  birth." 

'*  Oh  !  make  your  mind  easy.  At  the  present  day,  discus- 
sions of  this  sort  are  perfectly  objectless.  As  fBr  me  they  do 
not  affect  me ;  I  am  out  of  the  question." 

However  arrogant  this  reply  might  be,  it  caused  Mademoiselle 
de  Fontaine  the  profoundest  pleasure;  for,  like  all  persons  who 
are  under  the  influence  of  passion,  she  interpreted  it  as  oracles 
are  interpreted,  that  is,  in  the  sense  which  suited  her  inclina- 
tions ;  and  she  rejoined  the  dancers  more  joyous  than  ever  as 
she  looked  at  Longueville,  whose  style  and  elegance  perhaps 
surpassed  those  of  her  ideal  type.  She  experienced  an  addi- 
tional satisfaction  when  she  reflected  that  he  was  of  noble 
birth ;  her  dark  eyes  glittered,  and  she  danced  with  all  the 
pleasure  which  a  women  feels  when  she  is  dancing  in  the  pre- 
sence of  the  one  she  loves.  Never  did  the  lovers  understand 
each  other  better  than  at  that  moment,  and  several   times   did 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  235 

they  feel  their  fingers  tingling  and  trembling  as  the  exigencies 
of  the  quadrille  brought  them  into  contact. 

Thus  did  early  autumn  overtake  this  handsome  couple,  sur- 
rounded by  country  fetes  and  country  diversions,  allowing 
themselves  to  float  on  the  stream  of  the  sweetest  feeling  which 
life  can  offer,  and  heightening  it  by  a  thousand  trifling  details, 
which  may  be  left  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader ;  for  in  cer- 
tain points  all  love  affairs  are  alike.  Each  studied  the  other  as 
much  as  it  is  possible  for  two  lovers  to  study  one  another. 

"  Well,  never  did  a  flirtation  so  speedily  resolve  itself  into  a 
marriage  of  inclination,"  said  the  old  uncle,  who  kept  his  eye 
upon  the  young  people  as  closely. as  a  naturalist  examines  an 
insect  under  the  microscope. 

The  expression  frightened  M,  and  Madame  de  Fontaine 
The  old  Vendean  ceased  to  be  so  indifferent  in  the  matter  cf 
his  daughter's  marriage,  as  he  had  formerly  promised  to  be. 
He  went  to  Paris  in  search  of  information,  and  came  back 
without  obtaining  any.  Uneasy  at  the  mystery,  and  not  yet 
knowing  what  might  be  the  result  of  the  inquiry  which  he  had 
begged  a  man  of  business  in  Paris  to  set  on  foot  as  to  the 
Longueville  family,  he  deemed  it  his  duty  to  warn  his  daughter 
to  conduct  herself  prudently.  Her  father's  observation  was 
received  with  an  assumed  obedience,  that  was  full  of  irony. 

'*  At  least,  my  dear  ^^milie,  if  you  love  him,  don't  confess  it 
to  him." 

"  Father,  it  is  true  that  I  love  him,  but  I  will  not  tell  him  so 
until  you  give  me  leave  to  do  so." 

"  But,  ifemilie,  consider  that  as  yet  you  know  nothing  of  his 
family  or  his  position  in  life. 

"  If  I  am  ignorant,  it  is  my  wish  to  be  so.  But,  father,  you 
wanted  to  see  me  married ;  you  left  me  at  liberty  to  make  my 
choice  ;  it  is  made  irrevocably ;  what  more  is  needful  ?" 

"  You  must  learn,  my  dear  child,  whether  the  man  of  your 
choice  is  the  son  of  a  peer  of  France,"  replied  the  venerable 
nobleman,  ironically. 


23G  BALZAC. 

6miHe  was  silent  for  a  moment,  but  shortly  raised  her  head, 
looked  at  her  father,  and  said  to  him  somewhat  anxiously, 
"  Are  the  Longucvil-les  then —  ?" 

"  — Extinct  in  the  person  of  the  old  Due  de  Rostein-Lim- 
bourg,  who  perished  on  the  scaffold  in  1793.  He  was  the  last 
scion  of  the  last  younger  branch." 

"  But  father,  there  are  some  very  good  families  which  have 
sprung  from  bastards.  The  history  of  France  swarms  with 
princes  who  bore  the  bend  sinister  on  their  shield." 

"  Your  ideas  are  greatly  changed,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
smiling." 

The  morrow  was  the  last. day  that  the  De  Fontaine  family 
were  to  pass  at  Planat  Lodge.  6milie,  who  had  been  not  a 
little  disturbed  by  her  father's  intimation,  awaited  with  keen 
impatience  the  hour  at  which  young  Longueville  was  wont  to 
arrive,  in  order  to  get  an  explanation  from  him.  She  went  out 
after  dinner  for  a  solitary  walk  in  the  park,  directing  her  steps 
to  the  grove  of  confidences,  whither  she  knew  the  impetuous 
young  man  would  go  to  look  for  her.  As  she  went  she  debated 
in  her  mind  upon  the  best  method  of  surprising  so  important 
a  secret  without  compromising  herself — no  easy  matter.  Up 
to  the  present  moment,  no  open  avowal  had  sanctioned  the 
feeling  which  bound  her  to  this  stranger.  She  had,  like  Maxi- 
milien,  savored  in  secret  the  sweetness  of  first  love ;  but  they 
were  both  equally  proud,  and  it  seemed  that  both  of  them 
were  afraid  to  own  their  feelii^gs. 

Maximilien  Longueville,  whom  Clara  had  inspired  with  some 
suspicions  as  to  ^milie's  disposition,  which  were  not  without 
foundation,  had  been,  by  turns,  carried  away  by  the  violence 
of  a  young  man's  passion,  and  held  back  by  a  desire  to  know 
and  test  the  woman  to  whom  he  was  about  to  entrust  his 
happiness.  His  love  had  not  precluded  him  from-  observing 
that  ^milie  was  under  the  influence  of  prejudices  which  spoiled 
her  youthful  nature;  but  he  wanted  to  learn  whether  she  loved 
him,  before  trying  to  fight  against  them  ;  for  he  was  as  reluct- 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  237 

ant  to  risk  the  fate  of  his  love  as  that  of  his  existence.  He 
had  accordingly  maintained  a  silence  which  his  looks,  his 
attitude,  and  his  slightest  action  belied.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  pride,  so  natural  to  a  girl,  and  which  was  enhanced  in  the 
case  of  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  by  the  stupid  vanity  excited 
by  her  birth  and  beauty,  prevented  her  from  going  half-way  to 
meet  a  declaration,  which  her  growing  love  sometimes  impelled 
her  to  court.  Thus,  the  two  lovers  had  instinctively  compre- 
hended their  position,  without  exactly  explaining  their  secret 
motives  to  themselves.  There  are  moments  in  life  when  the 
vague  has  a  charm  for  youthful  minds.  From  the  very  fact  of 
their  having  both  too  long  put  off  speaking,  they  both  seemed 
to  be  making  a  cruel  sport  of  their  delay.  The  one  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  discover  whether  he  was  loved,  from  the  effort 
which  an  avowal  would  cost  his  haughty  mistress,  while  the 
other  hoped  that  every  moment  would  see  the  rupture  of  a  too 
respectful  silence. 

Seated  on  a  rustic  bench,  Emilie  was  reflecting  on  the 
events  which  had  occurred  during  these  three  months,  that 
had  been  so  full  of  enchantment.  Her  father's  suspicions 
were  the  last  apprehensions  that  could  assail  her;  she  even 
despatched  them  by  two  or  three  of  such  reflections  as  might 
occur  to  an  inexperienced  girl,  and  which  seemed  to  her  de- 
cisive. Above  all,  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was 
impossible  she  could  be  deceived.  She  had  failed  throughout 
the  season  to  discover  in  Maximilien  a  single  gesture,  or  a 
single  word,  which  indicated  a  plebeian  origin  or  plebeian 
occupations.  Better  still,  his  mode  of  discussing  a  subject 
bespoke  a  man  who  was  occupied  with  the  highest  interests  ot 
the  country.  "  Moreover,"  she  argued  with  herself,  "  a  pro- 
fessional man,  a  financier,  or  a  merchant,  would,  not  have  had 
leisure  to  spend  the  whole  season  in  paying  his  addresses  to 
me,  in  the  midst  of  the  woods  and  fields,  as  lavish  of  his  time 
as  a  nobleman  who  has  before  him  a  long  lifetime  void  of 
occupation."     She  was  yielding  herself  to  the  current  of  a 


2oS  BALZAC. 

meditation  much  more  interesting  to  her  than  these  prelimi- 
nary thoughts,  when  a  slight  rustling  of  the  foliage  informed 
her  that  for  some  little  time  Maximilien  had  been  looking  at 
her,  admiringly  without  doubt. 

"  Do  you  know  that  it  is  very  ill-bred  to. take  young  ladies 
by  surprise  like  that?  "  she  asked,  smiling. 

"  Fspecially  when  they  are  engrossed  by  their  secrets."  re- 
plied Maximilien  craftily. 

"  Why  should  I  not  have  my  secrets  ?  You  certainly  have 
yours." 

"You  really  were  thinking  of  your  secrets  then?"  said  Maxi- 
milien, with  a  laugh. 

"  No,  I  was  thinking  of  yours.     I  know  my  own." 

"  But,  perhaps,"  said  the  young  man  slowly,  as  he  seized 
the  arm  of  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  and  drew  it  through 
his  own,  "perhaps  my  secrets  are  yours,  and  yours  mine." 

After  walking  a  short  distance,  they  found  themselves  under 
a  clump  of  trees,  which  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  were 
covering  with  a  cloud  of  brownish  red.  Nature's  magic  in- 
vested the  passing  moment  with  a  sort  of  solemnity.  The  life 
and  freedom  of  the  young  man's  movements,  and  still  more 
the  agitation  of  his  overflowing  heart,  whose  quick  pulsations 
spoke  to  the  arm  of  6milie,  threw  her  into  a  state  of  excite- 
ment, which  was  all  the  more  eloquent,  because  it  was  called 
forth  only  by  the  simplest  and  most  innocent  accidents.  The 
reserve  by  which  the  young  ladies  of  the  great  world  are 
habitually  surrounded,  gives  an  incredible  strength  to  their 
explosions  of  feeling,  which  is  one  of  the  greatest  dangers  to 
which  they  are  exposed,  when  they  meet  with  a  passionate 
lover.  Never  had  the  eyes  of  Emilie  and  Maximilien  said  so 
many  things  ^hich  the  lips  dare  not  utter.  A  prey  to  this 
intoxication,  they  readily  forgot  the  frail  conventions  of  pride 
and  the  frigid  considerations  of  distrust.  The  only  form  of 
expression  they  could  find  at  first,  was  a  pressure  of  the  hand, 
which  served  as  an  interpretation  of  their  joyous  thoughts. 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  239 

"  I  have  one  question  to  put  to  5'ou,"  said  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine,  trembling,  and  with  a  voice  full  of  emotion,  after 
the  long  silence,  and  after  they  had  taken  a  few  slow  steps 
forward ;  but  I  beg  you  to  consider,  that  it  is  in  some  sort 
forced  upon  me,  by  the  very  strange  position  in  which  I  am 
placed  with  regard  to  my  family." 

A  pause  that  was  terrible  to  Emilie  succeeded  these  words, 
which  she  had  uttered  with  something  approaching  a  stammer. 
During  the  time  occupied  by  this  pause,  this  proud  young 
woman  did  not  dare  to  encounter  the  ardent  gaze  of  the  man 
she  loved,  for  she  had  a  secret  consciousness  of  the  base- 
ness of  the  ensuing  words,  as  she  added,  "  Are  you  of  noble 
birth?" 

When  these  last  words  had  been  uttered,  she  could  have 
wished  herself  at  the  bottom  of  a  lake. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  Longueville  gravely,  as  his  altered 
countenance  assumed  an  air  of  severe  dignity,  "I  promise  you 
that  I  will  give  a  direct  answer  to  that  question,  when  you 
have  replied  with  sincerity  to  that  which  I  am  about  to  put  to 
you."  He  dropped  the  arm  of  the  young  girl,  who  suddenly 
felt  herself  alone  in  the  world,  and  said  to  her,  "  What  is  your 
object  in  questioning  me  as  to  my  birth  ?"  Emilie  remained 
cold,  mute,  and  motionless. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  resumed  Maximilien,  "  let  us  proceed  no 
farther  unless  we  understand  each  other — /  love  you"  he 
added  in  a  deep  and  tender  voice.  "  Well,  then,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  glad  look  when  he  had  heard  the  exclamation 
of  delight  which  the  young  girl  could  not  repress,  "  why  do 
you  ask  me  whether  I  am  of  noble  birth  ?" 

"  Would  he  talk  like  that  unless  he  were  ?  "  said  an  inward 
voice,  which  Emilie  believed,  issued  from  the  depths  of  her 
heart.  Thereupon  she  graciously  raised  her  head,  seemed  to 
find  new  life  in  the  young  man's  look,  and  held  out  her  arm  to 
nira,  as  if  to  form  a  fresh  alliance. 


210  BALZAC. 

*•  You  thought  that  I  attached  great  importance  to  dignities?" 
she  asked,  with  mischievous  subtilty. 

"  I  have  no  titles  to  offer  to  my  wife,"  he  replied,  with  ar. 
air  half  gay,  half  serious.  "  But  if  I  take  her  from  a  high 
position,  and  from  among  those  whose  father's  wealth  has 
made  luxury  and  the  pleasures  of  opulence  habitual  to  them,  I 
know  the  duty  which  my  choice  imposes  on  me.  Love  gives 
all,"  he  added  gaily,  "  but  only  to  lovers, — as  to  married  folks, 
ihey  need  something  more  than  the  dome  of  heaven  and  the 
carpets  of  the  meadows. 

"  Ee  is  rich,"  thought  she.  "  As  to  titles,  perhaps  he  wants 
to  try  mc.  He  has  been  told  that  I  am  wedded  to  nobility, 
and  that  I  will  not  marry  any  one  but  a  peer  of  France.  My 
impertinent  sisters  have  played  me  that  trick." 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,"  she  said  aloud,  "  that  I  have  had  most 
exaggerated  views  of  life  and  of  the  world ;  but  now  "  (this 
was  said  intentionally,  and  as  she  spoke  she  looked  at  him  in 
a  manner  that  might  well  have  driven  him  mad)  "  now  I  know 
where  it  is  that  a  woman  must  look  for  real  wealth." 

"  I  wish  to  believe  that  you  are  speaking  from  the  heart," 
replied  he  with  gentle  gravity.  But  this  winter,  my  dear 
jfcmilie,  in  less  than  two  months  perhaps,  I  shall  have  reason 
to  be  proud  of  the  offers  that  I  can  make  you — if  you  care  for 
the  pleasures  of  affluence.  That  is  the  only  secret  which  I 
shall  bury  there"  said  he  pointing  to  his  heart,  "  for  upon  its 
success  depends  my  happiness,  I  dare  not  say  ours." 

"  Oh,  say  so,  say  so." 

Amid  the  sweetest  talk  they  returned  with  slow  steps  to  rejoin 
the  company  in  the  drawing-room.  Never  had  Mademoiselle 
de  Fontaine  found  her  lover  more  agreeable  or  more  witty. 
His  well-shaped  form  and  engaging  manners  seemed  to  her 
more  charming  than  ever,  after  the  conversation,  which  seemed 
in  some  sort  to  secure  her  the  possession  of  a  heart  which  any 
woman  might  covet.  The  lovers  sang  an  Italian  duet  together 
with    so    much    enthusiasm    that    the    assembled    company 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  241 

applauded  them.  Their  farewell  assumed  a  fconversational 
aspect,  beneath  which  they  concealed  their  happiness.  In 
short,  that  day  acted  as  a  chain,  which  bound  !l6milie  more 
closely  still  to  the  fortunes  of  the  stranger.  The  force  and 
dignity  which  he  had  displayed  in  the  scene,  during  which  they 
had  revealed  their  feelings  to  each  other,  had  perhaps  im- 
posed upon  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  that  respect  for  her 
lover  without  which  there  is  no  such  thing  as  genuine  love. 

When  she  was  left  alone  with  her  father  in  the  drawing-room, 
the  venerable  Vendean  went  up  to  her,  took  her  kindly  by  the 
hand,  and  asked  her  whether  she  had  gathered  any  information 
which  threw  light  upon  the  fortune  and  family  of  M.  Longue- 
ville. 

"  Yes,   dear  father,"  she  repiied.     "  I  am  happier  than  I 
could  ever  wish  to  be.     In  short,  Monsieur  de  Longueville  is 
he  only  man  whom  I  should  wish  to  wed." 

"  That's  well,  l^milie,"  replied  the  count.  "  I  know  what 
remains  for  me  to  do." 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  know  of  any  impediment?"  asked 
i^milie,  with  unfeigned  anxiety. 

"  My  dear  child  this  young  man  is  altogether  unknown,  but 
unless  he  be  a  dishonest  man,  he  is,  the  moment  that  you 
love  him  as  dear  to  me  as  a  son." 

"  A  dishonest  man  ?  "  continued  Emilie.  "  I  am  quite  easy 
upon  that  score.  My  uncle,  who  introduced  him  to  us,  can 
answer  for  him.  Tell  me,  dear  uncle,  has  he  been  a  freebooter, 
a  pirate,  or  a  corsair?  " 

"  I  knew  well  that  it  would  ■  come  to  this,"  cried  the  old 
sailor,  waking  up. 

He  looked  around  the  drawing-room,  but  his  neice  had  dis- 
appeared like  a  St.  Elmo's  fire,  to  employ  his  habitual 
expression. 

"  Well,  uncle,"  resumed  M.  de  Fontaine,  "  how  could  you 
conceal  from  us  all  that  you  knew  about  this  youth  ?    Our 
P 


24:i  BALZAC. 

anxiety  could  not  have  escaped  your  notice.  Is  M.  de  Long- 
ueville  a  man  of  family?  " 

"  I  don't  know  him  from  Adam  or  Eve,"  exclaimed  the 
Comte  de  Kergaroiiet.  "  Confiding  in  the  tact  of  that  little 
madcap,  I  brought  her  her  Saint-Preux,  by  a  manoeuvre  which 
I  understand.  I  know  that  the  lad  is  an  excellent  shot  with 
the  pistol,  is  a  good  sportsman,  and  plays  billiards,  chess,  and 
backgammon  to  perfection,  while  he  fences  and  rides  like  the 
late  Chevalier  de  Saint  Georges.  He  has  the  devil's  own 
knowledge  of  all  that  appertains  to  our  vineyards.  He  can 
calculate  like  Bareme,  and  is  a  good  hand  at  drawing,  dancing, 
and  singing.  Why,  what  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  you 
folks?  If  that  doesn't  make  a  perfect  gentleman,  show  me  a 
bourgeois  who  can  do  all  that ;  find  me  a  man  who  lives  as 
much  like  a  gentleman  as  he  does.  Does  he  follow  any  occu- 
pation ?  Does  he  compromise  his  dignity  by  going  to  an  office, 
by  bowing  and  scraping  to  the  upstarts  whom  you  call 
directors-general  ?  He  holds  his  head  up — he  is  a  man.  But, 
nwreover,  I  have  just  recovered  in  my  waiscoat  pocket,  the 
card  which  he  gave  me,  when  he  thought  that  I  wanted  tc  cut 
his  throat  for  him,  poor  simpleton  ?  (The  young  men  of  to-day 
are  not  very  sharp.)    See,  here  it  is." 

"Rue  de  Sentier,  number  five,"  said  M.  de  Fontaine,  trying 
to  recall,  amidst  all  the  information  which  he  had  obtained, 
something  which  might  have  reference  to  the  young  stranger. 
"  What  the  deuce  does  that  mean  ?  Messieurs  Palma,  Wer- 
brust,  et  Compagnie,  whose  principal  trade  is  wholesale 
dealings  in  muslin,  calico,  and  prints,  carry  on  business  at  that 
address.  Good ;  I  have  it ,  Longueville  the  deputy,  has  an 
interest  in  their  firm.  Yes ;  but  the  only  son  of  Longueville  I 
know  of,  is  thirty-two,  and  does  not  in  any  way  resemble  our 
Longueville  ;  he  is  going  to  give  that  son  50,000  livres  a  year, 
in  order  that  he  may  marry  the  daughter  of  a  minister ;  for 
like  every  one  else  he  wants  to  be  made  a  peer.  I  have  never 
heard  him  mentiqji  this  Maximilien      Then,  has  he  a  daughter? 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  243 

Who  is  this  C^ara  ?  Moreover,  mere  than  one  adventurer  may 
call  himself  Longueville.  But  the  house  of  Palma,  Werbrust, 
&  Co.,  has  been  half  ruined  by  some  speculation  in  Mexico, 
or  the  Indies.     I  will  clear  this  matter  up." 

"  You  are  soliloquizing,  for  all  the  world,  as  if  you  were  on 
the  stage,  and  you  seem  to  reckon  me  a  mere  cypher,"  said  the 
old  sailor  suddenly.  "  You  don't  seem  to  be  aware  that  if  he 
is  a  gentleman,  I  have  more  than  one  bag  under  my  hatch- 
ways to  make  up  for  the  want  of  his  fortune." 

"  For  that  matter,  if  he  be  a  son  of  Longuevilje's,  he  is  in  no- 
want  of  money,"  said  M.  de  Fontaine,  shaking  his  head  from 
right  to  left,  "  but  his  father  has  not  yet  bought  his  snob- wash. 
Before  the  revolution  he  was  an  attorney,  and  as  for  the  '  de  *" 
which  since  the  Restoration  he  has  placed  before  his  name,  he 
has  as  much  right  to  that  as  to  the  one  half  of  his  fortune." 

"  Pooh,  pooh !  happy  are  they  whose  fathers  have  been 
hanged,"  cried  the  old  sailor  gaily. 

Three  or  four  days  after  this  memorable  day,  on  one  of  those 
beautiful  mornings  in  the  month  of  November,  when  the 
Parisians  see  their  bulevards  cleansed  by  the  refreshing  cold  ot 
a  first  frost.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  arrayed  in  a  new  set 
of  furs,  which  she  wished  to  render  fashionable,  had  gone  out 
with  two  of  her  sisters-in-law,  at  whom  she  had  formerly  aimed 
the  larger  portion  of  her  epigrams.  The  three  women  had  been 
induced  to  undertake  this  drive  through  Paris,  far  less  by  their 
desire  to  try  a  very  elegant  new  carriage,  and  to  wear  the 
dresses  which  were  to  give  the  tone  to  the  winter  fashions,  than 
by  their  desire  to  look  at  a  tippet  which  one  of  their  friends 
had  noticed  in  a  grand  linen-drapej's  shop  at  the  comer  of  the 
Rue  de  la  Paix.  When  the  three  ladies  had  entered  the  shop, 
Madame  de  Fontaine  (the  baroness),  pulled  6milie's  sleeve, 
and  pointing  to  her  Maximilien  Longueville,  who  was  seated 
at  the  counter,  and  was  giving,  with  truly  merchantile  grace 
change  for  a  piece  of  gold  to  the  forewoman  of  the  establish.- 
mept,  with  whom  he  seemed  to  be  holding  a  consultation. 


244  BALZAC. 

"  The  handsome  stranger  "  held  in  his  hand  certain  samples 
which  left  no  doubt  as  to  the  nature  ot  his  honorable  calling. 
Unbeknown  to  all,  Emilie  was  seized  with  an  icy  shudder. 
Thanks,  however,  to  the  savoir-vivre  which  good  society  con- 
fers, she  completely  concealed  the  rage  which  devoured  her 
heart,  and  said  to  her  sister^  with  a  richness  of  accent  and  in- 
tonation which  might  have  aroused  the  envy  of  the  most 
celebrated  actress  of  the  age, — 

"  I  knew  it."  She  then  drew  near  to  the  counter,  Longue- 
ville  raised  his  head,  put  the  samples  into  his  pocket  with 
inimitable  coolness,  bowed  to  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  and, 
drawing  near  to  her,  cast  at  her  a  searching  glance. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  he  to  the  forewoman,  who  looked  at 
him  with  an  uneasy  air,  "  I  will  send  and  settle  the  account ; 
such  is  the  wish  of  the  firm.  But  stay,"  said  he  in  a  whisper 
to  the  young  woman,  giving  her  a  bank  note  for  a  thousand 
rancs,  "  take  this  ;  it  is  a  private  matter  between  ourselves." 

"  — You  will  pardon  me,  mademoiselle,"  said,  he  turning  to 
Emilie,  "  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  excuse  the  tyranny 
which  business  exercises  over  us." 

It  seems  to  me,  sir,  that  it  is  a  matter  of  supreme  indiffer- 
ence to  me,"  responded  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  looking  a{ 
him  with  a  hardihood  and  an  appearance  of  sarcastic  indiffer- 
ence, which  might  well  create  the  impression  that  she  had 
never  seen  him  before. 

"  Are  you  in  earnest  ?"  asked  Maximilien,  in  a  broken  voice 

Emilie  turned  her  back  to  him  with  incredible  insolence 
The  few  words  which  had  passed  between  them  had  escapi 
her  two  inquisitive  sisters-in-law.  When  the  three  ladies  ha  . 
secured  the  tippet  and  reseated  themselves  in  the  carriag  ,, 
i^milie,  who  occupied  the  front  seat,  could  not  help  casting 
one  last  all  embracing  look  into  the  depths  of  the  odious  sh  jp, 
and  there  saw  Maximilien,  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  who  was 
superior  to  the  misfortune  which  had  so  suddenly  overUken 
him.     Their  eyes  met  and  exchanged  two  implacable  gJ^nces. 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  245 

Each  cf  them  hoped  to  inflict  a  cruel  wound  upon  the  heart 
of  the  loved  one.  In  an  instant  they  found  themselves  as  far 
removed  from  one  another  as  if  one  of  them  had  been  in 
China,  and  the  other  in  Greenland,  Has  not  vanity  a  breath 
that  withers  all  it  meets  ?  Distracted  by  the  most  violent  con- 
flict which  can  possibly  agitate  the  breast  of  a  young  woman,' 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  reaped  at  that  moment  the  most 
abundant  harvest  of  sorrow  that  prejudice  and  littleness  ever 
lOwed  in  human  soul.  Her  face,  that  had  been  so  smooth  and 
Jresh,  was  now  streaked  with  yellow  stripes  and  patches  of  red, 
while  at  times  the  white  of  her  cheeks  would  suddenly  turn  green. 
Hoping  to  hide  her  sufferings  from  her  sisters,  she  would  point 
out  to  them  some  ridiculous  passenger,  or  some  absurd  dress, 
and  laugh.  But  the  laugh  was  convulsive.  She  felt  more 
deeply  wounded  by  the  silent  compassion  of  her  sisters,  than 
she  would  have  been  by  the  epigrams  by  which  they  might 
have  taken  their  revenge.  She  exercised  all  her  ingenuity  in 
endeavoring  to  draw  them  into  a  discussion,  in  which  she 
sought  to  give  vent  to  her  anger,  by  insane  parodies ;  seeking 
to  overwhelm  tradesmen  with  biting  insults,  and  epigrams  in 
very  bad  taste.  When  she  reached  home,  she  was  attacked 
by  a  fever,  which  seemed  at  first  to  be  of  a  dangerous  type; 
but  at  the  end  of  a  month,  she  was  restored  to  her  prayerful 
family,  through  the  tender  care  of  her  parents  and  her  phy- 
sician. Every  one  hoped  that  this  lesson  would  be  severe 
enough  to  soften  Erailie's  disposition ;  but  she  gradually  re- 
sumed her  old  habits,  and  once  more  dashed  out  into  the 
world.  She  maintained  that  there  was  no  disgrace  in  having 
been  deceived.  She  would  say  that  if,  like  her  father,  she  had 
any  influence  in  the  House,  she  would  propose  a  law  provid- 
mg  that  merchants,  especially  calico-merchants,  should  be 
branded  on  the  forehead,  like  the  sheep  of  Le  Berri,  to  the 
third  generation.  She  wished  that  only  noblemen  had  the 
privilege  of  wearing  those  old  fashioned  French  costumes, 
which  so  well  became  the  courtiers  of  Louis  Quinze.     To  hear 


24b  BALZAC. 

her,  it  was  perhaps  a  misfortune  for  the  monarchy  that  there 
was  no  visible  distinction  between  a  shopkeeper  and  a  peer  of 
France.  A  thousand  other  witticisms,  easy  to  be  gusssed,  fol- 
lowed one  another  in  quick  succession,  when  some  unforeseen 
accident  set  her  upon  the  topic.  But  those  who  loved  ]£milie 
could  discern  through  her  satire  a  tinge  of  melancholy  It 
was  clear  that  Maximilien  Longueville  still  reigned  in  the 
depths  of  her  inexplicable  heart.  Sometimes  she  became  gen- 
tle, as  during  the  fugitive  season  which  witnessed  the  birth  of 
her  passion ,  and  sometimes  also  she  grew  insupportable. 
Every  one  forgave  the  inequalities  of  temper,  which  had  their 
origin  in  sufferings  that  were  at  the  same  time  secret  and  well 
kno.vn.  The  Count  de  Kergaroiiet  obtained  some  slight  influ- 
ence over  her,  thanks  to  increased  liberality,  a  species  of  con- 
solation which  rarely  fails  to  have  some  effect  upon  the  fair 
youthful  denizens  of  Paris.  The  first  ball  that  Mademoiselle 
de  Fontaine  went  to  after  her  recovery  was  that  of  the  Neapo- 
litian  ambassador.  Just  as  she  was  taking  up  her  position  in 
the  most  brilliant  quadrille  set,  she  saw  within  a  few  paces  of 
her,  Longueville,  who  slightly  nodded  to  her  partner. 

"  Is  that  young  man  one  of  your  friends?"  she  inquired  of 
her  cavalier,  with  an  air  of  scorn. 

*'  Only  my  brother,"  he  replied. 

Emilie  could  not  refrain  from  shuddering. 

"  Ah,"  continued  her  partner  in  an  enthusiastic  tone  of  voice, 
"  he  is  indeed  the  finest  fellow  in  the  world     .     .     .     ." 

"Do  you  know  what  my  name  is?"  interposed  ifemilie  with 
emphasis. 

"  No,  mademoiselle.  It  is,  I  confess,  a  crime  to  have  for- 
gotten a  name  that  is  on  every  lip ;  nay,  I  ought  to  say  in 
every  heart ;  but  I  have  a  valid  excuse  ;  I  am  only  just  returned 
from  Germany.  My  ambassador,  who  is  at  Paris  on  leave  of 
absence,  sent  me  here  this  evening  to  act  as  chaperon  to  his 
amiable  wife,  whom  you  may  see  yonder  in  a  comer.** 


THE  BALL  AT  SCEAU7,  247 

"  A  regular  tragic  mask,"  said  Emilie,  when  she  had  scruti- 
nized the  anjbassadress. 

"  That,  however,  is  her  ball-room  countenance,"  replied  the 
young  man,  laughing.  "  It  is  my  bounden  duty  to  ask  her  to 
dance ;  and  accordingly  I  wanted  some  compensation." 

At  this  compliment  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  bowed. 

"  I  was  very  much  surprised,"  continued  the  talkative  attach^, 
"to  find  my  brother  here.  On  my  arrival  from  Vienna,  I 
learned  that  the  poor  boy  was  ill  in  bed,  and  I  fully  reckoned 
on  seeing  him  before  coming  to  the  ball ;  but  politics  do  not 
always  allow  us  to  have  such  a  thing  as  family  affection.  The 
padrona  della  casa  prevented  me  from  going  up  to  see  poor 
Maximilien." 

"  Your  brother  is  not  engaged  in  the  diplomatic  service,  as 
you  are?"  asked  Emilie. 

"  No,"  paid  the  attach^,  sighing,  "  he  sactrficed  himself  on 
my  account.  He  and  my  sister  Clara  have  relinquished  their 
share  of  my  father's  fortune,  in  order  that  he  might  create  an 
entail  in  my  favor.  My  father,  like  all  those  who  vote  for 
ministers,  dreams  of  a  peerage.  He  has  a  promise  to  that 
effect,"  he  added  in  an  undertone.  "  Having  got  together  a 
certain  amount  of  capital,  my  brother  became  a  partner  in 
some  banking  establishment,  and  I  know  that  he  has  just 
engaged  in  some  speculation  in  Brazil,  which  may  make  him  a 
millionaire.  You  see  me  quite  rejoiced  at  having  contributed, 
through  my  diplomatic  relations,  to  his  success.  I  am  even 
now  impatiently  waiting  for  a  despatch  from  the  Brazillian 
legation,  which  will  be  of  a  description  to  make  him  unknit 
his  brow.     What  do  you  think  of  him  ?" 

"  But  your  brother's  face  does  not  appear  to  me  to  be  that 
of  a  man  who  is  engaged  in  money-making." 

The  young  diplomatist  cast  one  searching  glance  upon  the . 
seemingly  untroubled  face  of  his  partner. 

"  What,"  he  exclaimed  with  a  smile,  "  young  ladies  then 
can  read  love  thoughts  also  beneath  dumb  foreheads  ?" 


248  BALZAC. 

"Is  your  brother  in  love  ?"  she  inquired,  with  a  gesture  in- 
dicative of  curiosity. 

"Yes;  my  sister  Clara,  of  whom  he  takes  a  mother's  care, 
wrote  to  tell  me  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  very  pretty 
person  this  summer;  but  since  then  I  have  had  no  news  about 
his  love  affairs.  Would  you  believe  that  the  poor  boy  used  to 
get  up  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  go  and  do  his  busi- 
ness, in  order  that  he  might  reach  the  country-house  of  his 
young  lady  at  four  in  the  afternoon  ?  the  consequence  being 
that  he  ruined  a  beautiful  blood  horse,  which  I  had  sent  him. 
Forgive  my  chatter,  mademoiselle;  I  am  just  come  from  Ger- 
many. For  the  last  year  I  have  not  heard  French  correctly 
spoken.  I  have  been  weaned  from  French  and  surfeited  with 
German  faces  to  such  an  extent,  that  in  my  patriotic  enthusiasm 
I  believe  I  could  talk  to  the  figures  on  a  Parisian  candlestick. 
Then  again  if  I  chatter  away  with  a  freedom  which  is  very 
unbecoming  in  a  diplomatist,  the  fault  is  yours,  mademoiselle. 
For,  was  it  not  you  who  pointed  out  my  brother?  When 
he  is  the  subject  of  conversation,  I  am  inexhaustible ;  I  should 
like  to  be  able  to  tell  the  whole  world  how  good  and  generous 
he  is.  The  amount  involved  was  no  less  than  100,000  francs 
a  year,  which  is  the  value  of  the  Longueville  estate  !" 

If  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  obtained  these  important  reve- 
lations, she  owed  them  in  part  to  the  skill  she  displayed  in 
interrogating  her  confiding  partner,  from  the  moment  when 
she  found  that  he  was  the  brother  of  the  lover  whom  she  had 
spurned. 

"  And  could  you  see  your  brother  selling  muslin  and  calico 
without  feeling  some  annoyance  ?"  asked  6milie,  after  finishing 
the  third  figure  of  the  quadrille. 

"  How  did  you  know  that?"  asked  the  diplomatist.  "  Like 
all  the  young  diplomatists  of  my  acquaintance,  I  have  already, 
thank  God,  acquired  the  art  of  saying  only  what  I  wish  to  say, 
even  while  indulging  in  a  torrent  of  words." 

"  It  was  you  who  told  me,  I  assure  you." 


THE   BALL   AT  SCEAUX.  24'J 

Monsieur  de  Longueville  looked  at  Mademoiselle  de  Fon- 
taine with  an  astonishment  that  was  full  of  perspicacity.  A 
suspicion  entered  his  mind.  He  interrogated  the  eyes,  first  of 
his  brother,  then  of  his  partner,  guessed  everything,  pressed 
his  hands  together,  raised  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  began  to 
laugh,  and  said, — 

'■  I  am  no  better  than  a  fool.  You  are  the  prettiest  woman 
in  the  room ;  my  brother  looks  at  you  sideways,  dances  in 
spite  of  his  fever,  and  you  pretend  not  to  see  him.  Make  him 
a  happy  man"  said  he  as  he  led  her  back  to  her  old  uncle. 
"  I  shall  not  be  jealous  of  him  ;  but  I  shall  always  tremble  a 
little  when  I  call  you  my  sister." 

The  two  lovers  however  were  destined  to  be  inexorable 
towards  each  other.  At  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  a 
light  supper  was  served,  in  an  immense  gallery,  in  which  the 
tables  were  arranged  as  they  are  in  restaurants,  so  as  to  leave 
persons  in  the  same  set  at  liberty  to  foregather  if  they  chose. 
By  one  of  those  strokes  of  chance  which  are  continually  hap- 
pening to  lovers.  Mademoiselle  de  P'ontaine  found  herself  at  a 
table  adjoining  that  at  which  the  most  distinguished  members 
of  the  party  were  assembled.  Maximilien  was  one  of  the  group, 
^milie,  who  lent  an  attentive  ear  to  the  talk  that  was  going  on 
among  her  neighbors,  overheard  one  of  those  conversations 
which  are  so  easily  established  between  young  women  and 
young  men  possessing  the  graces  and  the  bearing  of  Maximi- 
lien Longueville.  The  interlocutress  of  the  young  banker  was 
a  Neapolitan  duchess,  whose  eyes  darted  lightnings  and  whose 
white  skin  shone  like  satin.  The  intimacy  which  young 
Longueville  pretended  to  exist  between  him  and  this  lady 
wounded  Madamoiselle  de  Fontaine  all  the  more,  inasmuch  as 
she  had  just  bestowed  upon  her  lover  twenty  times  as  much 
regard  as  she  had  formerly  entertained  for  him. 

"Yes,  monsieur,  in  my  country  true  love  shrinks  from  no 
sacrifice  whatever,"  said  the  duchess,  smirking. 

"  You  are  more  passionate  than  French  women  are,"  said 


*J.0[)  ^  BALZAC, 

Maxiniilien,  whose  kindling  glance  fell  full  v.pon  ^milie  :  "  fhey 
are  all  vanity." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  young  girl  sharply,  */  is  it  not  an  un- 
worthy action  to  traduce  your  country  ?  Self-abnegation  be- 
longs to  all  countries  alike." 

*'  Do  you  think,  mademoiselle,"  pursued  the  Italian  lady 
with  a  sardonic  smile,  "  that  a  Parisian  woman  is  capable  of 
following  her  lover  wherever  he  may  go  ?" 

"  Oh,  let  us  not  misunderstand  each  other,  madame.  We 
would  go  to  the  desert,  to  live  there  in  a  tent,  but  we  don't  go 
and  sit  in  a  shop." 

She  wound  up  her  opinion  with  a  gesture  of  disdain. 

Thus  the  influence  upon  i^milie  of  her  fatal  bringing-up 
destroyed  for  the  second  time  her  budding  happiness,  and 
marred  her  career.  The  seeming  coldness  of  Maximilien,  and 
a  woman's  smile,  had  extorted  from  her  one  of  those  sarcasms, 
whose  treacherous  delights  were  ever  leading  her  astray. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  Longueville  to  her  in  a  low  voice, 
under  cover  of  the  noise  made  by  the  ladies  in  quitting  the 
tables,  "  no  one  will  form  more  ardent  wishes  for  your  happi- 
ness than  I  shall ;  allow  me  to  give  you  that  assurance,  in 
bidding  you  farewell.     In  a  few  days  I  shall  start  for  Italy." 

**  With  a  duchess,  doubtless  ?  " 

"  No,  mademoiselle  ;  but  with  a  mortal  malady,  perhaps." 

"  Isn't  that  a  mere  fancy?"  inquired  6milie,  with  an  uneasy 
look. 

"Not  so,"  said  he.  •* There  are  some  wounds  which  never 
heal." 

"  You  will  not  start,"  said  the  imperious  young  damsel,  with 
a  smile. 

"  Yes  I  shall,"  said  Maximinen  seriously. 

"  You  will  find  me  married  on  your  return,  I  give  you  warr>- 
ing,"  said  she  coquettishly. 

"  I  hope  I  may." 


mii  BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  251 

'  1  he  coxcorub,"  said  Emiiie,  "  He  revenges  himself  cruelly 
enough." 

Fifteen  days  afterwards  Maximilien  Longueville  and  his 
sister  Clara  set  out  for  the  warm  and  poetical  climes  of  lovely 
Italy,  leaving  Mademoiselle  de  Fontame  a  prey  to  the  most 
violent  regret.  The  young  attachd  embraced  his  brother's 
quarrel  and  contrived  to  visit  ^^mihe's  disdain  with  a  striking 
retribution,  by  publicly  announcing  the  grounds  of  the  rupture 
between  the  two  lovers.  He  repaid  with  usury  to  his  partner 
at  the  ball,  the  sarcasms  which  she  had  formerly  hurled  at 
Maximilien,  and  often  drew  a  smile  from  more  than  one  minis- 
ter, as  he  described  the  fair  enemy  of  counters,  the  Amazon 
who  preached  a  crusade  against  bankers,  the  young  lady  whose 
love  had  evaporated  at  the  sight  of  half  a  foot  of  muslin.  The 
Comte  de  Fontaine  was  obliged  to  use  his  influence  in  procur- 
ing for  Auguste  Longueville  a  mission  to  Russia,  in  order  to 
withdraw  his  daughter  from  the  ridicule  which  that  young  and 
formidable  persecutor  poured  upon  her  m  such  abundance. 
Shortly  afterwards  the  ministry,  being  compelled  to  raise  a  levy 
of  peers,  in  order  to  strengthen  the  iristocratic  vote,  which 
was  falling  off  in  the  upper  chamber,  under  the  influence  of  the 
oratory  of  an  illustrious  writer,  made  Monsieur  Guiraudin  de 
Longueville  a  peer  of  France  and  a  viscount.  Monsieur  de 
Fontaine  likewise  obtained  a  peerage,  a  reward  due  not  only  to 
his  name,  which  was  missing  from  the  hereditary  chamber,  but 
also  to  his  fidelity  during  the  evil  days  of  the  monarchy. 

About  this  time  6milie,  who  was  now  of  age,  indulged,  no 
doubt,  in  some  serious  reflections  on  life,  for  she  evidently 
changed  her  tone  and  manners.  Instead  of  exerting  herself  to 
say  unpleasant  things  to  her  uncle,  she  showered  upon  him  the 
most  affectionate  attentions,  brought  him  his  crutch  with  a  per- 
severance which  excited  the  laughter  of  the  wags ;  gave  hira 
her  arm  to  lean  on,  rode  in  his  carriage  with  him,  and  accom- 
panied him  whenever  he  went  out.  She  persuaded  him  that  she 
even  liked  the  smell  of  his  pipe,  and  read  to  him  his  dear 


5i52  BALZAC. 

Quoftdienne  lu  the  luiaiL  of  the  puffs  of  tobacco  smoke,  which 
the   raischevious  sailor   designed);  blew   towards  her.      She 
studied  piquet  in  order  to  be  a  tnitch  for  the  old  count,  and, 
to   crown  all,  this  most  whimsical  of  young  women  listened 
patiently  to  the  periodic  recitals  of  the  combat  of  the  "  Belle 
Poule,"  of  the  manoeuvrings  of  the  "  Ville  de  Paris,"  of  the 
first  expedition  of  M.  de  Suffren,  and  of  the  battle  of  Aboukir. 
Although  the  old  sailor  had  often  said  that  he  knew  his  lati- 
tude and  longitude  too  well  to  allow  himself  to  be  captured  by 
a  young  corvette,  the  salons  of  Paris  one  fine  morning  heard  of 
the  marriage  of  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  and  the  Comte  de 
Kergaroiiet.    The  young  countess  gave  splendid  entertainments, 
in  order  to  drown  reflection ;  but  she  doubtlessly  felt  a  sense  of 
emptiness  at  the  b^^ttom  of  the  whirl  of  gaiety.     Luxury  did 
but  imperfectly  conceal  the  void  and  unhappiness  of  her  suffer- 
ing heart ;  and  her  handsome  face,  in  spite  of  the  outbursts  of 
fictitious  gaiety,  generally  betrayed  a  mute  meloncholy.    l&milie 
seemed,  moreover,  to  be  full  of  attention  and  regard  for  her 
aged  husband,  who  would  often  say,  as  he  went  off  to  his  own 
private  room  in  the  evening,  to  the  sound  of  a  gay  orchestra, 
■"  I  don't  seem  to  be  the  same  man.     Must  I  needs  wait  till  I 
was  seventy-two  to  embark  as  pilot  on  board  the  Belle-Emilie, 
after  twenty  years  in  the  galleys  of  matrimony?  "     The  conduct 
of  the  countess  was  marked  by  so  much  austerity,  that  the  most 
quick-sightod  criticism  had  nothing  to  lay  hold  of      The  on- 
lookers came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  count  had  reserved  the 
right  of  disposing  of  his  fortune,  in  order  to  bind  his  wife  more 
closely  to  him, — a  supposition  that  was  insulting  both  to  the 
uncle  and  to  the  niece.     The  attitude  of  the  husband  and  wife 
was,  moreover,  so  judiciously  planned,  that  the  young  men,  who 
were  most  interersted  in  discovering  the  secrets  of  the  house 
hold,  could  not  find  out  whether  the  old  count  treated  his  wife 
as  a  husband  or  as  a  father.     He  was  frequently  heard  to  re 
mark  that  he  had  picked  up  his  niece  as  a  woman  who  had  been 
shipwrecked,  and  that  formerly  he  had  never  presumed  upon 


TnE   BALL  AT  SCEAUX.  255 

his  hospitality  when  he  happened  to  save  an  enemy  from  the 
fury  of  the  tempest.  Although  the  countess  aspired  to  reigi? 
in  Paris,  and  endeavored  to  march  abreast  with  the  Duchesses 
de  Maufrigneuse  and  de  Chaulieu,  the  Marchionesses  d'Espard 
and  d'Aiglemont,  the  Countesses  Fdraud,  de  Montcomet,  de 
Restaud,  Madame  de  Camps,  and  Mademoiselle  des  Touches, 
she  gave  no  encouragement  to  the  passion  of  the  young  Vis- 
comte  de  Portendu^re,  who  made  her  his  idol. 

Two  years  after  her  marriage,  in  one  of  the  antique  drawing- 
rooms  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  where  her  character  was 
regarded  with  admiration,  and  deemed  worthy  of  the  olden 
time,'l&milie  heard  the  servant  announce,  "Monsieur  le  Vicomte 
de  Longueville." 

In  the  corner  of  the  drawing-room  in  which  she  was  seated,, 
playing  piquet  with  the  Bishop  of  Persepolis,  her  emotion 
could  not  attract  the  attention  of  any  one,  but,  on  turning  her 
head,  she  witnessed  the  arrival  of  her  former  admirer,  in  all  the 
eclat  of  his  youth.  The  death  of  his  father,  and  that  of  his 
elder  brother,  who  had  succumbed  to  the  inclement  climate  of 
St.  Petersburg,  had  devolved  upon  the  head  of  Maximilien  the 
hereditary  plumes  of  the  cap  of  a  peer.  His  fortune  was  on 
a  par  with'his  attainments  and  his  worth.  The  very  day  before, 
his  youthful  and  impetuous  eloquence  had  enlightened  the 
Assembly.  At  this  moment,  he  appeared  before  the  sorrowing 
countess,  unmarried  and  adorned  with  all  those  advantages- 
which  she  had  formerly  required  from  her  ideal  type.  Every 
mother  with  marriageable  daughters  was  making  seductive  ad- 
vances to  a  young  man  who  was  endowed  with  those  good 
qualities,  for  which  those  who  admired  his  graceful  bearing  gave 
him  credit.  But  ifemilie  knew  better  than  any  one,  that  the 
Vicomte  de  Longueville  possessed  that  firmness  of  character, 
in  which  prudent  women  perceive  a  guarantee  for  happiness. 
She  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  admiral,  who,  according  to  his  own 
familiar  phrase,  seemed  likely  to  stick  to  his  ship  for  a  long 
t,ime,  and  cursed  the  errors  of  her  childhood. 


:254i 


BALZAC. 


At  that  moment  the  Bishop  of  Persepolis  said  to  her  with 
his  episcopal  grace,  "  Fair  lady,  you  have  discarded  the  king 
of  hearts,  and  I  have  won.  But  do  net  teg-  vour  money :  I 
keep  it  lor  my  little  sciioola.'* 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY. 

(Une  Double  Famille.; 

to  madame  la  comtesse  louise  de  turheim, 

as  a  token  of  remembrance  and 

affectionate  respect. 

The  Rue  du  Tourniquet  St.  Jean,  formerly  one  of  the  darkest 
and  most  tortuous  streets  in  the  old  quarter  which  surrounds 
cne  Hotel  de  Ville,  wound  itself  along  by  the  side  of  the  small 
gardens  of  the  prefecture  of  Paris,  and  terminated  in  the  Rue 
du  Martroi  just  at  the  coiner  of  an  old  wall  which  has  now 
been  pulled  down.  It  was  at  this  point  that  the  turnstile, 
from  which  the  street  took  its  name,  was  situated.  The  turn- 
stile was  not  destroyed  till  the  year  1823,  when  the  city  of 
Paris  had  a  ball-room  constructed  upon  the  site  of  a  little 
garden  attached  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  on  the  occasion  of  the 
entertainment  given  in  honor  of  the  Due  d'Angouleme,  on  his 
return  from  Spain.  The  widest  part  of  the  Rue  du  Tourni- 
quet was  where  it  debouched  into  the  Rou  de  la  Tixeranderie, 
and  even  at  that  point  it  was  not  five  feet  wide ;  so  that  in 
rainy  weather  black  streams  soon  began  to  wash  the  feet  of  the 
old  houses  which  lined  the  street,  bearing  with  them  the  refuse 
deposited  near  the  kerbstone  by  each  household.  The  dust- 
carts being  unable  to  pass  through  this  gorge,  its  inhabitants 
looked  to  the  storms  to  cleanse  their  ever -muddy  street.  And 
how,  indeed,  should  it  have  been  otherwise  than,  muddy? 
When  the  summer  sun  was  darting  its  perpendicular  rays  upon 
Paris,  a  sheet  of  gold,  incisive  as  the  blade  of  a  sabre,  would 
for  a  moment  illuminate  the  darkness  of  the  street,  but  had  no 
power  to  dry  up  the  persistent  moisture  which  crept  from  the 
ground-floor  to  the  first  storey  of  those  black  and  silent  houses. 


250  BALZAC. 

The  inhabitants  h'ghted  their  lamps  at  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon in  the  month  of  June.  In  winter  they  were  kept  burn- 
ing all  day.  Even  up  to  the  present  time,  if  any  bold  pedes- 
trian wants  to  go  from  the  Marais  to  the  quays,  starting  from 
the  end  of  the  Rue  du  Chaume,  and  following  the  Rues  de 
THomme-Armd,  des  Billettes,  and  des  Deux-Portes,  which  lead 
to  the  Rue  Tourniquet  St.  Jean,  he  will  fancy  he  has  been 
walking  under  archways.  Much  as  the  chronicles  have  vaunt 
ed  the  splendors  of  old  Paris,  almost  all  its  streets  resembled 
this  damp  and  sombre  maze — in  which  the  antiquary  may  still 
find  some  historic  peculiarities  to  admire.  Thus,  so  long  as 
the  house  which  was  situated  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  du 
Tourniquet  and  the  Rue  de  la  Tixeranderie  existed,  the 
observer  might  there  behold  the  traces  of  two  large  iron  rings 
fixed  into  the  wall,  and  being  a  remnant  of  those  chains  which 
the  constable  used,  in  by-gone  days,  to  stretch  across  the  street 
for  the  safety  of  the  public.  In  the  construction  of  this  house, 
which  was  remarkable  for  its  antiquity,  there  had  been  dis- 
played such  precautions  as  attested  the  insalubrity  of  these 
ancient  dwellings ;  for  to  render  the  ground-floor  more  whole- 
some, the  vaults  of  the  cellar  had  been  raised  some  feet  above 
the  soil,  and  one  had  to  mount  three  steps  in  order  to  enter 
the  house.  The  door-way  described  a  complete  arch,  the  key- 
stone of  which  was  adorned  with  a  woman's  head,  and  with 
some  time-worn  arabesques.  In  that  part  of  the  ground-floor 
which  looked  upon,  and  received  its  light  from,  the  Rue  du 
Tourniquet,  there  were  three  windows,  the  sills  of  which  were 
about  a  man's  height  from  the  ground.  These  windows  were 
protected  by  thick  iron  bars,  placed  wide  apart  and  terminating 
in  a  round  projection,  like  that  which  finishes  off  the  gratings 
of  bakers'  shops.  If  any  inquisitive  passer-by  cast  his  eyes  into 
the  two  roc  ms  of  which  this  apartment  consisted,  f*  was  impos- 
sible for  him  to  see  anything  in  them  during  the  day-time ;  for 
in  order  to  discover  in  the  second  room  two  beds  with  green 
serge  hangings,  placed  close  together  under  the  wood-work  of 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  257 

an  old  alcove,  the  July  sun  was  needed.  But  towards  evening 
about  three  o'clock,  when  once  the  candle  was  lighted,  there 
might  be  seen  through  the  window  of  the  first  room,  an  old 
woman  seated  on  a  stool  at  the  corner  of  a  fireplace,  and 
engaged  in  coaxing  a  chafing-dish,  on  which  one  of  those 
ragouts,  such  as  porteresses  are  skilful  in  concocting,  was  sim- 
mering. A  few  cooking  utensils  and  household  implements 
might  be  seen  in  the  clear-obscure  hanging  on  the  wall.  About 
this  hour  an  old  table  placed  upon  an  X-shaped  stand,  but  with 
no  cloth  upon  it,  was  spread  with  a  few  pewter  covers  and  the 
dish  which  the  old  woman  had  cooked.  In  this  room,  which 
was  both  a  kitchen  and  a  drawing-room,  there  were  three  miser- 
able chairs.  Above  the  fireplace  was  a  broken  mirror,  a  tinder- 
box,  three  glasses,  some  matches,  and  a  large  white  pot  very 
much  chipped.  Yet  there  was  something  pleasing  about  the 
whole  aspect  of  the  room.  Floor,  utensils,  fireplace,  and  all. 
partook  of  the  air  of  order  and  economy  which  reigned  in  that 
chill  and  dark  abode.  The  pale  and  wrinkled  face  of  the  old 
woman  was  in  keeping  with  the  obscurity  of  the  street,  and  the 
dinginess  of  the  house.  Had  you  seen  her  asleep  in  her  chair, 
you  would  have  said  that  she  was  attached  to  the  house,  just 
as  a  snail  is  attached  to  its  brown  shell.  The  face  of  the  old 
dame,  which  in  spite  of  its  assumed  good  nature,  wore  a  mis- 
chievous look,  was  surmounted  by  a  round  flat  cap  made  of 
tulle,  beneath  which  her  white  hair  could  easily  be  seen.  Her 
large  grey  eyes  were  as  calm  as  the  street  itself,  and  the  numer- 
ous furrows  of  her  countenance  might  be  compared  to  the 
crevices  in  the  walls.  Whether  she  had  been  born  in  poverty, 
or  had  lapsed  from  former  splendor,  she  seemed  to  have  been 
long  resigned  to  her  dull  existence.  From  sunrise  until  even- 
ing, the  old  woman  would  sit  in  the  second  room,  in  front  of 
the  last  window,  and  facing  a  young  girl ;  except  when  she  was 
engaged  in  the  preparation  of  a  meal,  or  when  with  a  basket  on 
her  arm  she  sallied  forth  in  search  of  provisions.  With  this  ex- 
ception she  spent  the  whole  day  in  the  other  room  before  the 
Q 


258  BALZAC. 

last  window,  seated  opposite  to  the  girl.  At  all  hours  cf  the 
day  those  who  passed  ihat  way  could  see  this  young  workwoman 
sitting  in  an  old  red-velvet  arm-chair,  her  head  bending  over 
her  embroidery  frame,  hard  at  work.  Meanwhile  her  mother, 
with  a  green  tambour  upon  her  knees,  was  making  tulle ;  but 
her  fingers  worked  the  bobbins  with  painful  effort ;  her  sight 
had  grown  weak,  for  on  her  sexagenary  nose  she  wore  a  pair  of 
those  old-fashioned  spectacles,  \\hich  keep  their  place  at  the 
end  of  the  nostril  by  dint  of  compression  At  night  these  two 
industrious  creatures  would  place  between  them  a  lamp,  whose 
1  ght,  passing  through  two  globes  filled  with  water,  would  enable 
the  one  to  see  the  finest  threads,  furnished  by  the  bobbins  of 
her  tambour,  and  the  other  to  follow  the  most  delicate  designs 
traced  upon  the  stuff  which  she  was  embroidering.  The  bend 
in  the  iron  bars  had  enabled  the  girl  to  place  upon  the  window- 
sill,  a  wooden  box  filled  with  earth,  and  containing  some  sweet 
Yie-ds,  some  nasturtiums,  a  poor  little  honey-suckle,  and  some 
convolvuluses,  whose  fragile  stalks  crept  round  the  bars.  The 
pallor  of  the  flowers  which  sprang  from  these  stunted  plants 
harmonized  with  all  the  surroundings,  and  gave  a  sad  and 
touching  aspect  to  the  picture  presented  by  the  window,  whose 
embrasure  formed  a  good  frame  to  the  faces  of  the  two  women. 
A  chance- glimpse  of  this  interior  fixed  in  the  mind  of  the  most 
egotistical  passer-by,  a  complete  imnge  of  the  life  led  by  the 
needlewomen  of  Paris ;  for  needlewomen  pure  and  simple,  the 
embroiderer  seemed  to  be.  Few  persons  reached  the  turnstile 
without  asking  themselves  how  a  young  girl  living  in  such  a 
cellar  contrived  to  preserve  her  fresh  complexion.  If  a  student 
passed  through  the  street  on  his  way  to  the  Quartier  Latin,  his 
lively  imogination  would  compare  that  obscure  and  vegetable 
existence  to  that  of  the  ivy,  which  drapes  the  cold  wall,  or  of 
those  peasants  who  are  born  to  toil  and  die  unknown  to  the 
world  which  they  have  fed.  The  man  of  independent  means, 
after  having  cast  a  landlord's  eye  upon  the  house,  would  say  to 
himself,  "  What  will  become  of  these  two  women  if  embroidery 


A  DOUBLE   FAMILY.  259 

should  go  out  of  fashion?"     Among  the  persons  who  were 
compelled  to  pass  through  the  street  at  certain  fixed  hours,  in 
order  to  reach  their  office  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville  or  the  Palais, 
there  might  perhaps  be  found  some  charitable  soul      Perhaps 
some  widower,  or  some  Adonis  of  forty,  by   dint  of  sounding 
the  recesses  of  that  melancholy  existence,  had  begun  to  found 
upon  the  poverty  of  the  mother  and  daughter,  hopes  of  achieving 
an  inexpensive  triumph  over  the  heart  of  the  innocent  little 
needlewoman,    whose    plump  and  agile  hands,  fresh-looking 
neck,  and  white  skin  (for  which  latter  charm  she  was  no  doubt 
indebted  to  her  abode  in  that  sunless  street)  excited  his  admir- 
ation.    Perhaps  some  worthy  civil  servant,  with  a  salary  of 
1 200  francs,  daily  witnessing  the  yourg  girl's  industry,  and 
respecting  the  purity  of  her  morals,  was  waiting  for  some  pro- 
motion in  order  to  join  one  obscure  existence  to  another  ob- 
scure existence,  one  life  of  incessant  toil  to  another  life  of 
incessant  toil,  and  ready  to  offer  at  least  the  support  of  a  manly 
arm  and  a  love  peaceful,  but  as  colorless  as  the  flowers  in  the 
window.     The  dull  grey  eyes  of  the  mother  kindled  with  vague 
hopes.     In  the  morning,  after  the  most  humble  of  breakfasts, 
she  would  go  back  10  her  tambour  as  an  excuse,  rather  than 
from  necessity,   for  she  would  lay  her  spectacles  upon  a  little 
work-table  of  red  wood,  as  old  as  herself,  and  from  half-past 
eight  till  about  ten,  pass  in  review  the  habitual  passengers, 
catching  their  glances,  making  remarks  upon  their  gait,  dress, 
and  features,  and  seeming  to  be  offering  them  her  daughter  for 
sale;  fo  eagerly  did  her  teU-tale  eyes  with  oglings  worthy  of 
the  side-s'^enes  of  the  theatre  seek  to  establish  sympathetic 
feelings  between  herself  and  the  pedestrians 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  this  review  was  a  spectacle  to  her ; 
perhaps  her  only  pleasure.  The  daughter  rarely  raised  her 
head.  Modesty,  or,  it  might  be,  the  painful  consciousness  of 
her  penury,  seemed  to  chain  her  eyes  to  the  embroidery  frame; 
so  that  she  only  showed  her  anxious  face  to  the  passen- 
gers when  her  mother  uttered  some  exclamation  of  surprise. 


2C0  BALZAC. 

The  civil-service  clerk  with  a  new  coat  on,  or  the  regular  -as- 
senger  appearing  with  lady  on  his  arm,  might  then  catch 
sight  of  the  somewhat  retrousse  nose  of  the  needlewoman,  her 
small  rosy  mouth  and  grey  eyes,  that,  in  spite  of  her  exhaust- 
ing toil,  sparkled  with  life.  Her  laborious  vigils  told  no  tales, 
except  in  a  circle  more  or  less  white,  traced  beneath  either  eye, 
upon  the  fresh  skin  of  her  cheeks.  The  poor  child  seemed  to 
have  been  born  into  the  world  for  love  and  gaiety.  Love  had 
painted  above  her  eyelids  two  perfect  arches,  and  had  given  her 
so  thick  a  forest  of  chestnut-colored  hair,  that  she  might  have 
hidden  herself  behind  it,  as  under  a  pavilion  impenetrable  to 
a  lover's  eye.  And  gaiety  had  given  life  to  her  mobile  nostrils, 
had  planted  two  dimples  in  her  unwasted  cheeks,  and  taught 
her  quickly  to  forget  her  trials.  Gaiety,  that  flower  of  hope, 
had  lent  her  strength  to  look  without  a  shudder  upon  the  arid 
path  of  life. 

The  hair  of  the  young  girl  was  always  carefully  combed. 
She,  like  all  the  needle-girls  of  Paris,  deemed  htr  toilette  com- 
plete when  she  had  smoothed  her  hair,  and  shaped  into  two 
crescents  the  little  tufts  which  played  on  either  temple,  and 
contrasted  with  the  white  skin.  So  gracefully  did  the  hair 
spring  from  her  forehead,  and  so  charming  an  idea  of  her 
youth  and  beauly  did  the  line  of  bistre,  clearly  traced  upon  her 
neck,  impart,  that  the  observer  who  saw  her  bending  over  her 
work  without  allowing  the  noise  to  induce  her  to  raise  her 
head  would  accuse  her  of  coquetry.  Promises  so  seductive 
excited  the  curiosity  of  many  a  young  man,  who  would  look 
round  in  the  hope  of  seeing  that  modest  countenance — but  to 
no  purpose. 

"  Caroline,  we  have  another  habitue  now,  better  than  any  of 
the  old  ones." 

These  words,  uttered  in  a  low  tone  by  the  mother,  one 
morning  in  the  month  of  August,  1815,  had  overcome  the 
young  needlewoman's  indifference.  She  looked  into  the  street^ 
but  looked  in  vain.     The  stranger  was  already  at  a  distance. 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  261 

**  Which  way  did  he  go  ?" 

"  He  is  sure  to  pass  by  again  at  four  o'clock.  I  shall  see  him 
coming,  and  will  touch  your  foot  to  give  you  notice.  I  am 
sure  that  he  will  go  by  again,  for  he  has  gone  through  our 
street  for  the  last  three  days.  But  he  is  unpunctual.  The 
first  day  he  went  by  at  six  o'clock,  the  day  before  yesterday  at 
four,  and  yesterday  at  three.  I  remember  to  have  seen  him 
formerly,  from  time  to  time.  He  must  be  some  clerk  at  the 
Prefecture,  who  has  changed  his  quarters  in  the  Marais. 
Well,"  she  added  after  a  glance  into  the  street,  "  our  gentle- 
man in  the  maroon  coat  has  taken  to  awig ;  how  it  has  changed 
him." 

It  would  seem  that  the  gentleman  in  the  maroon  coat  was 
the  last  of  the  regulars — the  one  who  closed  the  daily  proces- 
sion ;  since  the  old  mother  resumed  her  spectacles  and  took 
up  her  work  again  with  a  sigh 

As  she  did  so,  she  cast  at  her  daughter  so  singular  a  glance, 
that  Lavater  himself  would  have  been  puzzled  to  analyze  it. 
It  was  a  combination  of  admiration,  gratitude,  a  touch  of  hope 
for  a  better  future,  and  pride  in  having  so  pretty  a  daughter. 

In  the  evening,  at  about  four  o'clock,  the  old  woman  touched 
Caroline's  foot ;  she  looked  up  in  time  to  see  the  new  actor, 
whose  periodical  passage  was  to  give  fresh  life  to  the  scene. 
This  man  was  tall,  slim,  and  pale ;  he  was  dressed  in  black, 
and  was  about  forty  years  of  age.  There  was  something  solemn 
in  his  gait  and  bearing.  When  his  hazel  and  penetrating 
eye  encountered  the  dull  glance  of  the  old  M'oman,  it  made 
her  tremble ;  she  credited  him  with  a  gift  or  habit  of  reading 
what  was  passing  in  people's  breasts.  His  address  must  be  as 
freezing  as  the  air  of  the  street.  Was  the  somewhat  green  and 
earthy  hue  of  that  terrible  face  the  result  of  excessive  toil  or  of 
delicate  health?  This  was  a  problem  to  which  the  old  mother 
found  twenty  different  solutions.  But  the  next  day,  Caroline, 
and  only  Caroline,  discovered  on  that  brow — which  was  so  prone 
to  knit — the  traces  of  protracted  mental  suffering.     On  the 


2C2  BALZAC. 

slightly  hollow  cheeks  of  the  stranger  might  be  seen  the  mark 
of  that  seal  which  sorrow  sets  upon  its  subjects,  as  if  it  would 
leave  them  the  consolation  of  being  able  to  recogni::c  each  other 
with  a  fraternal  eye,  and  unite  their  strength  in  resistance.  At 
first,  the  eye  of  the  young  girl  brightened,  from  innocent  curiosity 
simply ;  but  as  the  stranger  receded  m  the  distance,  looking  like 
the  last  mourner  in  a  funeral  procession,  her  look  was  one  of 
gentle  sympathy  Between  the  great  heat  of  the  weather  and 
his  own  absence  of  mind,  the  stranger  had  not  replaced  his 
hat  as  he  passed  through  the  close,  unwholesome  street,  so  that 
Caroline  had  an  opportunity  of  observing  the  appearance  of 
sternness  which  the  stranger's  hair,  rising  brush-like  from  his 
forehead,  gave  to  the  features.  The  vivid,  but  not  agreeable 
impression  produced  on  Caroline's  mmd  by  the  aspect  of  this 
man,  was  different  from  any  that  had  been  created  by  any 
other  of  the  habitu'es  Now,  foi  the  first  time,  she  felt  com- 
passion for  some  one,  other  than  her  mother  and  herself  To 
the  queer  conjectures  which  supplied  food  to  the  irritating 
loquacity  of  her  mother,  she  made  no  answer ;  but  kept  passing 
her  long  needle  up  and  down  through  the  tight-stretched  tulle. 
She  was  sorry  she  had  seen  so  little  of  the  stranger,  and  waited 
for  the  next  day  ere  passing  a  definite  sentence  upon  him. 
Never  before  had  any  of  the  frequenters  of  the  street  caused 
her  such  a  number  of  reflections.  As  a  rule  the  suppositions 
of  the  mother,  who  hoped  to  find  in  every  passer-by  a  protec- 
tor for  her  daughter,  were  greeted  only  with  a  mournful  smile. 
If  such  ideas,  thus  imprudently  suggested,  aroused  no  evil 
thoughts  in  Caroline's  heart,  her  indifference  must  be  imputed 
to  that  incessant  and,  alas,  indispensable  toil  which  was  de- 
vouring the  forces  of  her  precious  youth,  and  must  infallibly, 
in  the  long-run,  trouble  the  clearness  of  her  eyes,  and  steal 
from  her  pure  cheeks  the  delicate  color  with  which  they 
.were  still  tinged.  For  about  two  whole  months  the  black  gen- 
tleman — such  was  his  nickname — was  very  capricious  in  his 
proceedings.     He  did  not  always  pass  througJi  the  Rue  du 


A   DOUELE   FAMILY.  2G3 

Tourniquet;  the  old  woraan  often  saw  him  in  the  evening, 
without  having  seen  him  in  the  morning ;  he  did  not  return  at 
fixed  times  like  the  other  civil  servants,  who  were  as  good  as 
a  clock  to  Madame  Crochard.  In  short,  but  for  that  first 
encounter  of  glances,  from  which  the  old  woman  had  imbibed 
a  kind  of  dread,  the  eye  of  the  stranger  had  never  seemed  to 
take  the  slightest  notice  of  the  picturesque  group  presented 
by  the  two  female  gnomes.  Two  large  gates  and  the  dark 
shop  of  a  dealer  in  old  iron  were,  with  the  exception  of  some 
grated  windows  which  lighted  the  staircases  of  some  neighbor- 
ing houses,  the  only  openings  into  the  Rue  du  Tourniquet,  at 
the  period  of  which  we  are  speaking,  so  that  the  slendtr 
curiosity  of  the  passer  could  not  be  laid  to  the  score  of  dan- 
gerous rivalries.  Madame  Crochard  was  necessarily  tantalized 
to  see  her  black  gentleman  always  lost  in  serious  thought,  keep- 
ing his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  or  looking  straight  before 
him  as  if  he  would  read  the  future  in  the  fog  of  the  Rue  du 
Tourniquet.  Nevertheless,  one  morning  towards  the  end  of 
September,  the  playful  head  of  Caroline  Crochard  stood  out 
so  clearly  against  the  dim  back-ground  of  her  room,  and  looked 
so  fresh  amid  the  tardy  flowers,  and  the  withered  foliage  en- 
twined about  the  window  bars,  while  the  everyday  scene  pre 
sented  such  contrasts  of  light  and  shadow,  of  red  and  white, 
so  happily  combined  with  the  muslin  which  the  dainty  little 
workwoman  was  looping  up,  and  with  the  red  and  brown  tints 
of  the  armchairs,  that  the  stranger  looked  very  attentively  at  the 
living  picture.  It  must  be  admitted  that  the  old  mother,  weary 
of  the  indifference  of  her  black  gentleman,  had  adopted  the 
plari  of  making  such  a  clicking  with  her  bobbins,  that  the  sad  and 
careworn  passer  was  perhaps  compelled  by  the  unwonted  noise 
to  look  at  her  abode.  The  stranger  only  exchanged  with 
Caroline  one  glance,  a  glance  rapid  it  is  true,  but  long  enough 
to  bring  their  minds  into  contact,  and  to  inspire  them  with 
the  presentiment  that  they  would  think  of  one  another.  When, 
at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  the  stranger  returned,  Caroline 


264  BALZAC. 

Jistinguished  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  upon  the  echoing 
pavement,  and  there  was  a  kind  of  premeditation  in  the  looks 
which  they  exchanged.  The  eyes  of  the  passenger  were  beam- 
ing with  a  benevolent  expression,  and  Caroline  blushed,  while 
the  face  of  the  old  mother  assumed  a  satisfied  air.  Reckon- 
ing from  that  memorable  morning,  with  very  few  exceptions, 
not  unnoticed  by  the  two  women,  the  black  gentleman  passed 
through  the  Rue  du  Tourniquet  twice  a  day.  From  the 
irregularity  of  his  hour  for  returning,  they  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  was  not  so  soon  released  from  his  duties,  nor 
so  strictly  punctual  as  a  subaltern  clerk.  During  the  first  three 
winter  months  Caioline  and  the  stranger  saw  each  other  thus, 
during  the  time  he  took  to  traverse  the  piece  of  pavement 
stretching  from  the  door  past  the  three  windows  of  the  house. 
From  day  to  day  this  rapid  interview  assumed  a  character  of 
benevolent  intimacy,  and  ended  by  becoming  almost  brotherly. 
Caroline  and  the  stranger  appeared  from  the  first  to  under- 
stand each  other,  and  finally,  by  dint  of  examining  each  other's 
faces,  they  gained  a  profound  knowledge  of  them.  This  pas- 
sing glance  soon  became,  as  it  were,  a  visit  which  the  stranger 
owed  to  Caroline.  If  the  black  gentleman  happened  to  pass 
without  greeting  her  with  the  half-formed  smile  upon  his  elo- 
quent mouth,  or  the  friendly  glance  of  his  brown  eyes,  there 
was  something  wanting  in  her  day.  She  was  like  those  old 
men  to  whom  the  reading  of  the  newspaper  has  become  so 
great  a  pleasure,  that  the  morning  after  a  grand  festivity,  they 
go  away  quite  disconcerted,  asking  as  much  through  inadver- 
tence as  impatience,  for  the  sheet  which  helps  them  to  fill 
for  the  moment  the  void  of  their  existence.  But  these  fugitive 
interviews  possessed,  both  for  Caroline  and  the  stranger,  all 
the  interest  of  a  familiar  chat  between  two  friends.  The  young 
girl  was  no  more  able  to  conceal  from  the  intelligent  eye  of 
her  silent  friend  her  sadness,  uneasiness,  or  anxiety,  than  he 
could  hide  from  Caroline  his  preoccupation. 

"  He  had  some  trouble  yesterday,"  was  a  thought  which 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  265 

often  sprang  up  in  the  heart  of  the  needlewoman,  when  she 
beheld  the  changed  features  of  the  black  gentleman.  "  Oh,  he 
must  have  been  hard  at  work,"  was  another  exclamation,  which 
certain  slight  alterations,  known  to  Caroline,  would  call  forth. 
The  stranger,  on  his  part,  could  tell  when  the  young  girl  had 
been  working  on  Sunday,  in  order  to  finish  the  dress  in  the 
pattern  of  which  he  took  an  interest.  When  rent  day  approach- 
ed he  saw  the  pretty  face  clouded  with  anxiety,  and  could  tell 
when  Caroline  had  sat  up  late  ;  but  he  had  especially  remarked 
how  the  sad  thoughts  which  disfigured  the  gay  and  delicate 
features  of  the  young  face  disappeared,  as  their  acquaintance 
ripened.  When  winter  came  to  wither  the  stems  and  leaves 
of  the  window-garden,  and  the  casement  was  closed,  the 
stranger  noticed,  with  a  smile  of  harmless  mischief,  the  extra- 
ordinary cleanness  of  the  glass,  to  the  height  of  Caroline's 
head.  In  the  scanty  fire,  and  certain  patches  of  red  which 
heightened  the  color  of  the  two  women,  he  saw  the  indigence 
of  the  household  ;  but  if  painful  compassion  could  be  read  in 
his  eyes,  Caroline  met  it  with  assumed  gaiety.  The  feelings, 
however,  which  had  budded  in  their  hearts  had  remained 
buried  there.  No, event  happened  to  reveal  to  either  the 
strength  or  extent  of  the  other's  feelings.  They  did  not 
know  even  the  sound  of  each  other's  voices.  The  two  dumb 
friends  avoided  involving  themselves  in  a  closer  union — as  if 
it  were  a  misfortune.  Each  of  them  seemed  to  dread  inflict- 
ing on  the  other  a  misery  more  weighty  than  that  which  they 
took  pleasure  in  sharing.  Was  it  the  modesty  of  friendship 
which  checked  them  at  that  point?  Was  it  that  selfish  apprehen- 
sion, or  that  atrocious  distrust  which  separates  all  the  inhabi- 
tants of  a  populous  city  ?  Was  it  that  the  silent  voice  of 
conscience  gave  them  warning  of  the  approaching  danger? 
It  would  be  impossible  to  explain  the  sentiment  which  made 
them  half  enemies,  half  friends,  half  indifferent  and  half 
attached,  as  much  united  by  instinct,  as  separated  in  fact. 
Perhaps  they  wanted  to  preser\'e  their  illusion.     At  times,  one 


2C6  BALZAC. 

would  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  stranger  feared  he 
might  hear  some  coarse  language  from  those  fresh  lips,  which 
were  as  pure  as  a  flower,  and  that  Caroline  did  not  deem 
herself  good  enough  for  that  mysterious  being,  whose  mien 
and  bearing  spoke  of  wealth  and  power.  As  for  Madame 
Crochard,  that  tender  mother,  almost  discontented  with  the  in- 
decision of  Caroline,  looked  sullenly  at  her  black  gentleman,  at 
whom  she  had  formerly  cast  smiling  glances  that  were  almo>t 
servile.  Never  had  she  so  bitterly  complained  to  her  daughtci 
of  being  compelled  to  do  the  cooking  at  her  time  of  life  ; 
never  had  her  rheumatism  and  her  catarrh  extorted  from  her 
so  many  groans ;  and  lastly,  she  had  not  been  able  to  make  as 
many  ells  of  tulle  that  winter  as  Caroline  had  till  then  counted 
on.  Such  being  the  situation  of  affairs,  and  it  being  now  the 
end  of  December,  the  time  when  bread  is  always  dearest, 
and  when  the  scarcity  of  grain,  which  made  the  year  1816  so 
hard  for  poor  people,  was  beginning  to  be  felt,  the  stranger 
noticed  upon  the  face  of  the  young  girl,  whose  very  name  was 
unknown  to  him,  the  fearful  traces  of  some  secret  thought,  not 
to  be  dissipated  by  his  benevolent  smile.  Soon  afterwards  he 
could  read  in  Caroline's  eyes  the  wan  effects  of  nightwork. 
On  one  of  the  last  nights  of  that  month,  ^he  stranger  returned 
towards  one  o'clock  a.  m.  through  the  Rue  du  Tourniquet  St. 
Jean.  The  night  was  so  silent  that  long  before  reaching 
Caroline's  house  he  could  hear  the  querulous  voice  of  the  old 
mother,  the  more  mournful  tones  of  the  young  sempstress 
mingling  shrilly  with  the  whistling  snowstorm.  He  tried  to 
creep  up  slowly,  and  at  the  risk  of  being  arrested,  ensconced 
himself  beneath  the  window,  to  listen  to  the  mother  and 
daughter,  while  he  watched  them  through  the  largest  of  the 
holes  which  gashed  the  curtains  of  yellowish  muslin,  and  made 
them  look  like  large  cabbage-leaves  gnawed  into  holes  by 
caterpillars.  The  inquisitive  passenger  saw  a  stamped  docu- 
ment upon  the  table,  which  stood  between  the  two  frames  and 
supported  the  lamp  with  its  two  water-globes.     He  saw  st 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  267 

once  that  it  was  a  summons.  Madame  Crochard  was  crying, 
and  Caroline's  voice  had  a  guttural,  sound,  which  marred  the 
natural  sweetness  and  gentleness  of  its  tones. 

"Why  distress  yourself  so,  mother?  Monsieur  MoHneux 
will  not  sell  us  up,  or  turn  us  out  before  I  have  finished  this 
dress.  Two  nights  more  and  I  shall  take  it  to  Madame 
Roguin's." 

"  And  what  if  she  makes  you  wait  as  she  always  does,  and 
will  the  price  of  the  dress  pay  the  baker  as  well  ?  " 

The  spectator  of  this  scene  was  so  much  in  the  habit  of 
reading  faces  that  he  saw,  at  least  so  he  fancied,  as  much 
affectation  in  the  mother's  sorrow,  as  genuineness  in  that  of 
the  daughter.  •  He  suddenly  disappeared,  but  returned  a  short 
time  afterwards.  On  looking  through  the  slit  in  the  muslin,  he 
saw  that  the  mother  was  in  bed,  while  ihe  young  girl,  with  her 
head  bent  over  her  frame,  was  working  with  indefatigable 
assiduity ;  on  the  table  close  to  the  summons  lay  a  piece  of 
bread,  cut  in  the  form  of  a  triangle,  and  placed  there,  no 
doubt,  for  the  young  girl  to  eat  during  the  night,  while  remind- 
ing her  of  the  recompense  of  her  courage.  The  stranger,, 
trembling  with  pity  and  sorrow,  threw  his  purse  through  a 
broken  pane  to  the  very  feet  of  the  young  girl.  Then,  without 
staying  to  enjoy  her  surprise,  he  decamped  with  beating  heart 
and  burning  cheek.  The  next  day  the  sad  and  unsociable 
stranger  assumed  a  preoccupied  air  as  he  passed  by  ;  but  he 
could  not  evade  the  gratitude  of  Caroline,  who  had  thrown  the 
window  open,  and  was  amusing  herself  by  digging  up  with  a 
knife  the  soil  in  the  snow-covered  box — a  pretext  whose  in- 
genious clumsiness  showed  her  benefactor  that  this  time  she 
did  not  wish  to  see  him  through  the  glass.  The  sempstress,, 
with  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  bowed  to  the  stranger,  as  if  to  say,. 
"  I  can  only  pay  you  with  my  heart."  But  the  black  gentlanan 
looked  as  if  he  did  not  at  all  understand  this  expression  of 
genuine  gratitude.  As  he  repassed  in  the  evening,  Carolme, 
who  was  engaged  in  repasting  a  sheet  of  paper  over  the  broken 


268  '  BALZAC. 

pane,  displayed  the  enamel  of  her  gleaming  teeth  in  a  smile 
that  was  full  of  promises.  Thenceforth  the  black  gentleman 
sought  another  thoroughfare,  and  was  seen  no  mete  in  the  Rue 
du  Tourniquet.  One  Saturday  morning,  in  the  early  part  of 
the  ensuing  May,  Caroline  espied  between  the  two  black  rows 
of  houses  a  small  bit  of  blue  sky.  and  while  watering  out  of  a 
tumbler  the  root  of  her  honey-suckle,  said  to  her  mother, — 

"  Mamma,  we  must  go  for  a  walk  at  Montmorency  to-mor- 
row." The  joyous  phrase  had  scarcely  passed  her  lips  when 
ihe  black  gentleman  went  by,  sadder  and  more  dejected  than 
€ver.  The  modest  but  kindly  glance  which  Caroline  cast  at 
him  might  well  be  taken  for  an  invitation.  Accordingly  when, 
on  the  following  day,  Madame  Crochard,  dressed  in  a  merino 
Tobe  of  reddish  brown,  a  silk  bonnet,  and  an  imitation  Cash- 
mere shawl  with  large  stripes,  presented  herself  at  the  corner 
of  the  Rue  du  Faubourg  St.  Denis  and  the  Rue  d'Enghien, 
for  the  purpose  of  choosing  a  coucou,  she  found  her  stranger 
standing  there,  like  a  man  who  is  waiting  for  his  wife.  A  smile  of 
pleasure  chased  the  furrows  from  the  stranger's  face  when  he 
saw  Caroline.  Her  little  feet  were  cased  in  pure  puce-colored 
prunello.  Her  white  dress,  the  sport  of  a  wind  that  would 
have  been  treacherous  to  an  ill-made  woman,  displayed  her 
attractive  figure.  Her  face,  shaded  by  a  rice-straw  hat,  lined 
with  rose-colored  silk,  was  lighted  up,  as  it  were,  with  a  ray 
from  heaven.  Her  large  puce-colored  sash  set  off  to  great 
advantage  a  very  slender  waist.  Her  hair  parted  into  two 
bands  of  bistre  over  her  snowy  forehead,  gave  her  an  air  of 
candor  which  there  was  nothing  in  the  rest  of  her  features  to 
counteract.  Joy  seemed  to  make  Caroline's  heart  as  light  as 
the  straw  of  her  hat ;  but  when  she  caught  sight  of  the  black 
gentleman,  there  was  kindled  in  her  breast  a  hope,  which  at 
once  eclipsed  her  dress  and  beauty.  It  was  perhaps  this  sud- 
den revelation  of  the  joy  occasioned  by  his  presence,  that 
determined  him  to  be  the  travelling  companion  of. the  little 
needlewoman  ;  for  at  first  he  seemed  undecided.     He  hired  a 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY,  269 

cabriolet  with  a  decent  horse,  to  go  to  Saint-Leu-Taverny,  and 
offered  Madame  Crochard  and  her  daughter  a  place  in  it. 
The  mother  accepted  the  offer  without  waiting  for  it  to  be 
repeated ;  but  as  soon  as  the  cabriolet  had  reached  the  road 
to  St.  Denis,  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  have  some  scruples, 
and  uttered  timidly  polite  fears  that  the  presence  of  the  two 
women  might  cause  their  companion  some  inconvenience. 

"  Perhaps  you  wished  to  go  to  St.  Denis  alone,  sir,"  said  she 
with  affected  good  nature.  But  she  soon  began  to  complain 
about  the  heat,  and  especially  about  her  cold,  which  had  not^ 
so  she  said,  allowed  her  to  close  her  eyes  the  whole  night 
through.  So,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  she  seemed  to  be 
fast  asleep,  almost  ere  the  carriage  had  reached  St.  Denis. 
Some  of  her  snores  seemed  to  ^/le  black  gentleman  to  be  extre- 
mely suspicious,  and  as  he  looked  at  the  old  woman,  he 
frowned  with  an  air  of  singular  distrust. 

*'  Oh,  she  is  asleep,"  said  Caroline  artlessly,  "  she  did  not 
cease  coughing  the  whole  night  through.  She  must  be  very 
tired." 

The  only  response  of  her  companion  was  a  subtle  smile 
which  seemed  to  say  to  the  young  girl,  "  you  innocent  creature, 
you  don't  know  your  mother."  Nevertheless,  when  the  carriage 
was  bowling  along  the  road  in  the  long  avenue  of  poplars  which 
leads  to  Eaubonne,  the  black  gentleman  in  spite  of  his  suspici- 
ousness, came  to  the  conclusion  that  Madame  Crochard  was 
really  asleep.  Perhaps,  also,  he  did  not  care  to  pursue  his 
investigations  into  the  genuineness  of  the  slumber,  any  further. 
Whether  the  beauty  of  the  sky,  the  pure  country  air,  and  the 
intoxicating  perfumes  of  the  first  shoots  of  the  poplar-tree,  and 
of  the  flowers  of  the  willow,  and  the  white  thorn,  had  caused 
his  heart  to  unfold  itself  as  nature  was  unfolding  herself; 
whether  longer  self-restraint  was  becoming  irksome  to  him,  or 
Caroline's  sparkling  eyes  reflected  the  disquiet  of  his  own,  the 
black  gentleman  began  a  conversation  with  his  young  companion, 
that  was  as  vague  as  the  undulating  movements  of  the  tree 


2  .'0  BALZAC. 

swaying  in  the  breeze,  as  rambling  as  the  wandering  flight  of 
the  butterfly  in  the  blue  sky,  as  illogical  as  the  melodious  mur- 
mur of  the  fields,  though  filled  like  that  with  a  mysterious  love. 
At  this  season  of  ihe  year  the  country  trembles  like  a  bride 
who  has  just  donned  her  wedding-dress,  and  bids  the  coldest 
heart  rejoice.  Quitting  the  dark  streets  of  the  Marais  for  the 
first  time  since  the  last  autumn,  and  plunged  into  the  midst  of 
the  harmonious  and  picturesque  vale  of  Montmorency ;  passing 
through  it  in  the  morning  with  its  boundless  expanse  before 
the  eye  ;  turning  from  that  to  eyes  which  also  speak  of  infinity 
by  expressing  love,  who  would  not  melt  ?  what  lips  would  keep 
a  secret  ?  The  stranger  found  Caroline  gay  rather  than  witty, 
affectionate  rather  than  well  informed ;  but,  if  her  laugh  was 
^iddy,  her  language  showed  that  her  feelings  were  genuine. 
As  the  young  girl  replied  to  the  skilful  questionings  of  her  com- 
panion, with  that  lavish  outpouring  of  the  heart  which  is 
•characteristic  of  the  lower  classes,  who  disdain  the  reticence  of 
the  denizens  of  the  world,  the  face  of  the  black  gentleman  grew 
animated,  and  seemed  to  gain  new  life.  His  countenance 
gradually  lost  the  sadness  which  had  contracted  his  features , 
then,  tint  by  tint,  assumed  an  air  of  youth  and  beauty,  which 
made  Caroline  quite  proud  and  happy.  The  pretty  embroi- 
derer guessed  that  her  protector  had  been  so  long  weaned 
from  tenderness  and  love,  that  he  had  ceased  to  believe  in 
womanly  devotion.  At  length  an  unexpected  sally  of  Caroline's 
light  tongue  removed  the  last  veil  which  had  concealed  the 
real  youthfulness  and  native  character  of  the  stranger's  face. 
He  seemed  to  bid  an  eternal  farewell  to  the  ideas  that  had 
troubled  him,  and  began  to  display  the  vivacity  which  under- 
lay his  solemn  face.  The  chit-chat  became  by  imperceptible 
degrees,  so  intimate,  that  when  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  first 
houses  in  the  straggling  village  of  Saint-Leu,  Caroline  had 
begun  to  call  the  stranger  "  Monsieur  Roger."  Then  for  the 
ilrst  time  the  old  lady  woke  up. 


A  DOUBLE   FAMILY.  271 

"Caroline,  she  must  have  heard  all  we  have  been  saying," 
whispered  Roger  to  the  young  girl  suspiciously. 

Caroline's  answer  was  a  charming  smile  of  incredulity  which 
scattered  the  dark  cloud  that  fear  of  some  scheme  on  the  part 
of  the  mother  had  brought  to  the  brow  of  the  suspicious  man. 
Without  expressing  any  surprise,  Madame  Crochard  approved 
of  everything,  and  followed  her  daughter  and  Monsieur  Roger 
into  the  park  of  Saint-Leu,  whither  the  two  young  people  had 
agreed  to  go,  to  see  the  laughing  prairies  and  perfumed  groves, 
which  the  taste  of  Queen  Hortense  has  made  so  celebrated. 

"  My  God,  how  beautiful  it  is  !"  said  Caroline,  as,  mounted 
on  the  top  of  the  green  slope,  whence  rises  the  forest  of  Mont- 
morency, she  saw  at  her  feet  the  vast  valley  unfolding  its  sinu- 
osities sown  with  villages,  the  blue  horizon  of  its  hills,  its 
steeples,  fields,  and  prairies,  while  the  whisper  of  the  vale,  like 
the  murmur  of  the  sea,  stole  to  her  ear  and  died.  The  three 
travellers  skirted  the  banks  of  an  artificial  stream,  and  reached 
the  Swiss  valley,  whose  cottage  more  than  once  received  Queen 
H  )rtense  and  Napoleon. 

When  Caroline  had  seated  herself  with  religious  respect 
upon  the  moss-grown  bench  on  which  kings  and  princesses 
and  the  emperor  had  rested,  Madame  Crochard  manifested  a 
desire  to  gain  a  nearer  view  of  a  suspension  bridge  joining  two 
rocks,  which  was  to  be  seen  in  the  distance,  and  directed  her 
steps  towards  that  rustic  curiosity,  leaving  her  child  under  the 
care  of  Monsieur  Roger,  but  telling  him  that  she  would  keep 
an  eye  upon  them. 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  my  poor  little  creature,"  cried 
Roger,  "  that  you  have  never  sighed  for  wealth  and  the  enjoy- 
ments of  luxury?  Don't  you  sometimes  wish  to  wear  the 
handsome  dresses  which  you  embroider?" 

*'  I  should  not  be  telling  you  the  truth.  Monsieur  Roger,  if 
I  said  that  I  never  think  of  the  happiness  which  the  rich  enjoy. 
Oh,  yes,  I  often  think,  especially  when  I  am  going  to  sleep,  of 
the  pleasure  I  should  find  in  seeing  my  poor   mother  not 


272  BALZAC. 

obliged  at  her  time  of  life  to  go  through  all  kinds  of  weather 
to  fetch  our  little  necessaries.  I  should  like  to  have  a  char- 
woman to  take  her  her  coffee,  well  sweetened  with  white  sugar, 
in  the  morning  before  she  gets  up.  She  loves  novel  reading, 
poor  old  soul ;  well,  I  would  rather  see  her  wearing  her  eyes 
out  over  her  favorite  reading,  than  doing  nothing  but  moving 
her  bobbins  from  morning  till  night.  She  would  want  a  little 
good  wine  too.  In  short,  I  should  like  to  see  her  h^ppy,  slie 
is  so  good." 

"She  has  shown  you  her  goodness  then?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  the  young  girl  in  a  low  voice.  Then, 
after  a  brief  interval  of  silence,  during  which  the  two  young 
people  looked  at  Madame  Crochard,  who,  having  reached  the 
middle  of  the  rustic  bridge,  was  skaking  her  finger  at  them, 
Caroline  continued, — 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  has  proved  it  to  me.  What  care  she  took  of 
me  when  I  was  little  !  She  sold  her  last  bits  of  plate  in  order 
to  apprentice  me  to  the  old  maid  who  taught  me  embroider- 
ing. And  then,  my  poor  father;  what  trouble  she  took  to 
make  his  last  moments  pass  comfortably!"  As  this  thought 
crossed  her  mind  the  young  girl  shuddered  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  two  hands.  "  Ah,  bah,  let  us  never  think  of 
bygone  evils,"  said  she,  trying  to  resume  a  cheerful  look.  She 
colored  when  she  saw  Roger  was  affected  by  her  words ;  but 
did  not  dare  to  look  at  him. 

"  What  was  your  father,  then  ?"  he  asked. 

"  My  father  was  an  opera-dancer  before  the  revolution,"  said 
she,  in  the  most  natural  manner  possible,  **  and  my  mother 
was  a  chorus  singer.  My  father,  who  used  to  marshall  the 
troops  at  the  theatre,  was  accidentally  present  at  the  taking  of 
the  Bastile.  He  was  recognized  by  some  of  the  assailants,  who 
asked  him  if  he  who  commanded  sham  assaults  on  the  stage, 
could  not  lead  a  real  attack  well.  My  father  who  was  a  brave 
man,  accepted  their  proposal,  headed  the  insurgents,  and  was 
rewarded  with  the  grade  of  captain  in  the  army  of  the  Sambre 


A  boUBLE  FAMILY.  273 

et  RIeuse,  where  he  behaved  so  well  as  to  gain  rapid  promotion; 
he  became  a  colonel ;  but  he  was  so  severely  wounded  at 
Lutzen,  that  he  returned  to  Paris  only  to  die,  after  a  year's 
illness.  The  Bourbons  came  back,  my  mother  could  get  no 
pension,  and  we  sank  back  into  such  deep  poverty,  that  we 
were  compelled  to  Avork  for  a  living.  For  some  time  past  the 
good  soul  has  been  ailing,  and  I  have  never  seen  her  so  little 
resigned ;  she  complains,  and  I  can  understand  it ;  she  has 
tasted  the  sweets  of  a  happy  existence.  As  for  me,  who  cannot 
regret  pleasures  which  I  have  never  known,  I  only  ask  of  Hea- 
ven one  thing." 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Roger  quickly:  (he  seemed  pen- 
sive.) 

"  That  women  may  always  wear  embroidered  tulle,  so  that 
work  may  never  fall  short." 

The  frankness  of  these  confessions  secured  the  young  man's 
interest ;  he  looked  at  Madame  Crochard  with  a  less  hostile 
eye,  as  with  tardy  steps  she  returned  to  them. 

"Well,  my  children,  have  you  had  a  good  chat?"  she  in- 
quired, with  a  half-indulgent,  half-bantering  air.  "  When  one 
thinks.  Monsieur  Roger,  that  le  petit  caporal  has  sat  where  you 
are  now  sitting,"  she  resumed,  after  a  moment's  silence.  "  Poor 
man,"  she  added,  "  my  husband  loved  him,  that  he  did.  Ah  ! 
Crochard  did  well  to  die,  for  he  could  not  have  endured  to 
know  that  he  is  where  they  have  put  him." 

Roger  put  his  finger  to  his  lips,  and  the  good  woman 
nodded  her  head,  and  said  gravely,  "Enough,  I'll  keep  a  close 
mouth  and  a  still  tongue.  But,"  added  she,  opening  the  folds 
of  her  dress  and  displaying  a  cross  with  its  red  riband,  fastened 
round  her  neck  by  a  bit  of  black  silk,  "■they  won't  prevent  me 
from  wearing  what  the  other  gave  to  my  poor  Crochard,  and  I 
will  certainly  have  it  buried  with  me.     ..." 

On  hearing  these  words,  which  would  at  that  time  be  deemed 
seditious,  Roger  interrupted  the  old  mother  by  rising  abruptly, 
and  they  returned  to  the  village  through  the  alleys  of  tlie  park. 

R 


274  BALZAC. 

The  young  man  left  them  for  a  few  moments,  to  go  and  order 
something  to  eat  at  the  best  eating-house  in  Taverny ;  he  then 
returned  for  the  two  women,  and  tcok  them  to  the  house 
through  the  forest  paths.  The  dinner  was  gay.  Roger  was 
no  longer  the  ill-omened  shadow  that  used  formerly  to  pass 
through  the  Rue  du  Tourniquet;  rather  ihon  the  black  gentle- 
vian,  he  now  resembled  a  confident  youth,  ready  to  swim  with 
the  current  of  existence,  like  those  two  heedless  and  industri- 
ous women,  who  might  perhaps  be  wanting  bread  to-morrow. 
He  seemed  to  be  under  the  influence  of  youthful  joys,  his  smile 
was  caressing  and  childlike.  When  towards  five  o'clock 
sundry  glasses  of  champagne  brought  the  dinner  to  an  end, 
Roger  was  the  first  to  suggest  that  they  should  join  the  village 
ball  beneath  the  chestnut-trees,  where  he  and  Caroline  danced 
together.  There  was  a  meaning  in  the  pressure  of  their 
hands,  their  beating  hearts  were  inspired  by  the  same  hope ; 
and  beneath  the  blue  sky,  in  the  red  horizontal  rays  of  the 
setting  sun,  their  looks  shone  wilh  such  radiance  as  to  dim 
the  light  of  heaven.  What  strange  power  in  an  idea  and  a 
desire  I  Nothing  seemed  impossible  to  these  two  beings.  In 
these  magic  moments,  when  pleasure  casts  its  glamor  even  on 
the  future,  the  heart  foretells  nothing  but  delight.  That  bright 
day  had  already  created,  for  these  two  beings,  memories  wilh 
which  nothing  in  their  past  existence  could  compare.  Is, 
then,  the  spring  more  grateful  than  the  stream,  desire  more 
enchanting  than  enjoyment,  hope  more  attractive  than  posses- 
sion? 

"Ah,  then,  the  day  is  ended  !  " 

This  exclamation  escaped  the  stranger's  lips,  when  the  dance 
was  over.  Caroline,  seeing  that  a  slight  touch  of  sadness  was 
stealing  back  to  his  face,  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  com- 
passion. 

"  Why  should  you  not  be  as  happy  in  Paris  as  here?"  said 
she.  "  Is  happiness  to  be  found  only  at  Saint-Leu  ?  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  cannot  be  unhappy  anywhere  now  !" 


DOUBLE  FAMILY.  275 

Roger  trembled  when  he  heard  these  words,  the  offspring  of 
that  sweet  self  abandonment  which  ever  leads  women  farther 
than  they  would  go,  just  as  prudery  often  makes  them  seem 
more  cruel  than  they  really  are. 

For  the  first  time,  since  that  glance  which  had  been  in  some 
sort  the  commencement  of  their  friendship,  Caroline  and 
Roger  harbored  the  same  thought.  If  they  did  not  give  ex- 
pression to  it,  they  felt  it  at  the  same  time,  through  the 
medium  of  a  mutual  impression,  which  resembled  the  warmth 
of  a  grateful  fire,  consoling  them  for  the  chill  of  winter.  Then, 
as  if  they  dreaded  their  mutual  sflence,  they  walked  to  the 
place  where  the  carriage  was  waiting  for  them.  But  before 
they  got  into  it,  they  took  each  other's  hands  like  brother  and 
sister,  and  ran  on  in  front  of  Madame  Crochard,  down  a  dark 
avenue.  When  they  had  lost  sight  of  the  white  tulle  bonnet 
which,  peeping  through  the  foliage,  showed  them  where  the 
old  woman  was,  Roger  cried  with  troubled  voice  and  beating 
heart,  "Caroline?"  The  young  girl,  recognizing  the  passion 
that  breathed  in  that  interrogation,  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two, 
confused;  still  she  held  out  her  hand,  which  was  ardently 
kissed,  then  quickly  withdrawn,  for  rising  on  tip-toe,  Caroline 
had  caught  sight  of  her  mother.  Madame  Crochard  pretended 
that  she  saw  nothing ;  as  if,  in  memory  of  her  former  calling, 
she  was  only  called  upon  to  figure  there  in  an  aparte. 

The  love  affair  of  these  two  young  people  was  carried  no 
further  in  the  Rue  du  Tourniquet.  If  you  would  find  Caro- 
ine  and  Roger  now,  you  must  transport  yourself  to  the  centre 
of  Modern  Paris,  to  those  new-built  houses  which  seem  to 
have  been  constructed  expressly  for  young  couples  to  pass 
their  honeymoon  in  them.  Paint  and  paper,  like  the  pair,  are 
new ;  the  decorations  like  the  love,  are  in  their  first  bloom. 
Everything  is  in  harmony  with  young  impressions  and  efferves- 
cent desire.  There  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  Rue  Taitbout, 
a  house  whose  freestone  was  still  white,  and  the  columns  of  its 
door  and  vestibule  free  from  stains,  while  its  walls  shone  with 


276  BALZAC. 

that  coquettish  style  of  painting  which  our  first  relations  with 
England  had  rendered  fashionable.  On  the  second  floor  of 
this  house  the  architect  had  arranged  a  little  dwelling,  as  if  he 
had  guesed  what  its  destination  would  be.  A  neat  and  simple 
anteroom,  lined  breast-high  with  stucco,  communicated  with  a 
drawing-room  and  a  small  dining-room.  Beyond  the  drawing- 
room  was  a  pretty  bedchamber,  and  adjoining  that,  a  bath- 
room. The  chimney-pieces  were  furnished  throughout  with 
tall  mirrors  in  tasteful  frames.  The  doors  were  ornamented 
with  refined  arabesques,  and  the  cornices  were  of  the  purest 
style.  An  amateur  would  have  recognized  there,  better  than 
elsewhere,  that  knowledge  of  distinction  and  ornament  which 
is  characteristic  of  our  modern  architects.  Caroline  had  occu- 
pied these  apartments  for  about  a  month.  They  had  been 
furnished  by  one  of  those  upholsterers  who  follow  the  direc- 
tions of  the  artist.  A  succinct  description  of  the  most  import- 
ant room  will  suffice  to  give  an  idea  of  the  marvels  which  this 
little  abode  presented  to  the  eyes  of  Caroline  when  Roger 
installed  her  in  it. 

Hangings  of  grey  material  enlivened  by  borders  of  green 
silk,  adorned  the  walls  of  her  bedroom.  The  chairs,  covered 
with  light  kerseymere,  were  of  the  slight  and  graceful  form 
prescribed  by  the  latest  caprices  of  fashion.  A  commode  of 
some  indigenous  wood  inlaid  with  brown  lines  guarded  the 
treasures  of  the  wardrobe.  There  was  a  writing-table  of  sim.i- 
lar  description  for  the  inditement  of  billets-doux  on  perfumed 
paper.  The  bed,  with  its  antique  draper)^,  could  not  fail  to- 
inspire  voluptuous  ideas,  by  the  softness  of  its  elegantly 
arranged  muslins.  Its  curtains  of  grey  silk,  with  their  green 
tassels,  were  also  drawn  so  as  to  exclude  the  light.  The  bronze 
timepiece  represented  Cupid  crowning  Psyciie ;  and  lastly  a 
carpet  with  gothic  designs  upon  a  reddish  ground  brought  out 
in  full  relief  the  accessories  of  this  abode  of  pleasure.  In 
front  of  a  Psyche  stood  a  little  toilet-table,  and  seated  before 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  277 

it  was  the  ex-embroiderer,  growing  impatient  over  the  science 
of  Plaisir,  a  celebrated  hair-dresser. 

"  Do  you  expect  to  finish  my  head  to-day?"  said  she. 

"  Madame's  hair  is  so  long  and  thick,"  replied  Plaisir. 

Caroline  could  not  help  smiling.  The  flattery  of  the  hair- 
dresser had  no  doubt  awakened  in  her  heart  a  recollection  of 
the  enthusiastic  praise  which  her  friend  bestowed  upon  the 
beauty  of  the  tresses  which  he  so  strongly  admired. 

When  the  hairdresser  had  gone,  the  lady's  moid  came  to 
hold  a  council  with  Caroline  as  to  the  toilette  which  would 
please  Roger  best.  It  was  then  the  beginning  of  September, 
i8i6,  and  the  weather  was  cold,  so  that  choice  was  made  of  a 
dress  of  green  grenadine^  trimmed  with  chinchilla.  As  soon 
as  her  toilette  was  complete,  Caroline  rushed  to  the  drawing- 
room,  and  opened  a  window  leading  to  the  elegant  balcony 
which  ornamented  the  front  of  the  house. 

There  she  stood  with  folded  arms,  in  a  charming  posture, 
not  in  order  to  attract  the  admiration  or  the  passengers,  and 
see  them  turning  their  heads  to  look  at  her,  but  that  she  might 
command  the  boulevard  at  the  end  of  the  Rue  Taitbout. 
This  prospect,  which  one  might  compare  to  the  slit  made  by 
actors  in  the  curtain  of  a  theatre,  enabled  Caroline  to  catch 
sight  of  a  multitude  of  elegant  carriages,  and  a  number  of 
people  sweeping  on  with  the  rapidity  of  Chinese  shadows. 

The  whilom  sempstress  of  the  Rue  de  Tourniquet  not  know- 
ing whether  Roger  would  come  on  foot  or  in  a  carriage, 
scrutinized  in  turn  the  pedestrians  and  the  tilburies,  those  light 
vehicles  imported  into  France  by  the  English.  Mingled  ex- 
pressions of  mutiny  and  love  chased  each  other  over  her 
youthful  features,  when,  after  watching  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  neither  her  piercing  eye  nor  her  heart  warned  her  of  the 
approach  of  him  whom  she  was  expecting.  What  contempt, 
what  utter  disregard  for  all  the  beings  who  were  bustling  about 
hke  ants  beneath  her  feet,  might  be  read  upon  that  beautiful 
face.     Her  grey  eyes  danced  and  sparkled  with  mischief.     Ab- 


278  BALZAC. 

sorbed  in  her  passion  she  avoided  homage  with  as  much  care 
as  the  very  proudest  take  to  reap  it  during  their  walk  in  Paris. 
Little  indeed  did  she  reck  whether  the  impression  made  by 
her  cream-white  complexion,  or  by  the  little  foot  jutting  out 
from  the  balcony,  or  the  tantalizing  picture  of  her  lively  eyes 
and  daintily  retroussd  nose,  would  on  the  morrow  be  erased 
from  the  memory  of  the  admiring  passcngcf,  or  not.  She  saw 
but  one  face,  she  had  but  one  idea,  when  the  spotted  head  of 
a  certain  dark  bay  horse  showed  itself  beyond  the  line  of 
houses. 

Caroline  trembled,  and  stocd  on  tiptoe  to  try  to  recognize 
the  white  reins  and  the  color  of  the  tilbury.  It  was  he.  Roger 
turns  the  street  corner,  catches  sight  of  the  balcony  and  whips 
his  horse,  the  horse  darts  forward  to  the  bronze  door,  that  he 
knows  as  well  as  his  master  knows  it.  'i  he  door  of  the  apart- 
ment was  opened  in  advance  by  the  lady's  maid,  who  had 
heard  her  mistress's  joyful  exclamation.  Roger  rushes  to  the 
drawing-room,  presses  Caroline  in  his  arms,  and  kisses  her  with 
that  outburst  of  feeling  which  always  accompanies  the  meeting 
of  two  lovers  who  meet  rarely.  He  leads  her,  or  rather,  though 
locked  in  each  other's  arms,  they  walk  with  one  accord,  to 
that  charming,  sequestered,  and  scented  chamber.  They  sit 
down  upon  a  sofa  before  the  fire,  and  gaze  at  each  other  for 
a  moment  in  silence,  expressing  their  happiness  by  ardent  pres 
sure  of  each  other's  hands  and  communicating  their  thoughts 
in  one  long  look. 

"  Yes,  it  is  he,"  she  at  length  exclaimed,  "  yes,  it  is  you. 
Do  you  know  that  it  is  three  long  days — a  century,  since  1  saw 
you.     But  what  is  the  matter?  has  anything  annoyed  you  ?"' 

"  My  poor  Caroline  !" 

"There  now,  ' my  poor  Carohne,*  indeed  !" 

"  No,  don't  laugh,  my  angel,  we  cannot  go  to  Feydeau's  this 
evening." 

Caroline  began  to  pout  a  little,  but  soon  iooked  bright 
again. 


A  DOUBLE   FAMILY.  279 

"  I  am  a  stupid.  How  can  I  think  about  the  theatre  when  I 
am  looking  at  you  ?  Is  not  seeing  you  the  only  spectacle  I 
care  for?"  said  she,  passing  her  fingers  through  Roger's  hair. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  go  to  the  attorney-general's ;  we  have  a 
difficult  matter  on  hand.  He  met  me  in  the  great  hall^  and  as 
I  shall  have  to  speak,  he  asked  me  to  go  and  dine  with  him ; 
but,  my  darling,  you  can  go  to  Feydeau's  with  your  mother ;  I 
will  join  you  there  if  the  conference  is  soon  over." 

"  What,  go  to  the  theatre  without  you  !"  cried  she,  with  an 
expression  of  astonishment;  "  enjoy  a  pleasure  which  you  do 
not  share  O  my  Roger,  you  do  not  deserve  to  be  kissed," 
she  added,  springing  to  his  neck  with  a  movement  that  was  at 
once  unaffected  and  voluptuous. 

"  Caroline,  I  must  go  back  and  dress  myself.  The  Marais 
is  some  distance  off,  and  I  have  still  some  business  to  get 
through." 

"  Take  care,  sir,  what  you  are  saying,  there,"  said  Caroline, 
interrupting  him.  "  My  mother  told  me  that  when  men  begin 
to  talk  to  us  about  their  business,  they  have  ceased  to  love  us." 

"  Caroline,  have  I  not  come  to  see  you  ?  Haven't  I  stolen 
this  hour  from  my  inexorable — " 

"  Hush,"  said  she,  placing  a  finger  on  Roger's  mouth ; 
"husli,  don't  you  see  that  I  am  only  in  fun." 

They  had  now  gone  back  to  the  drawing-room.  There 
Roger  caught  sight  of  a  piece  of  furnitu"e  which  the  cabinet- 
maker had  brought  that  very  morning ;  the  old  rosewood  frame, 
which  had  fed  Caroline  and  her  mother  when  they  were  living 
in  the  Rue  du  Tourniquet  St.  Jean,  had  been  refurbished,  and 
a  tulle  dress  of  rich  design  was  already  stretched  upon  it. 

"  Well,  my  dear  friend,  this  evening  I  will  work.  While  I 
embroider,  I  shall  believe  myself  back  again,  in  those  old  days 
when  you  used  to  pass  me  without  speaking,  but  not  without 
looking  at  me ;  those  days  when  the  recollection  of  your  looks 
kept  me  awake  at  nighr.  O  my  dear  frame,  the  best  piece  of 
furniture  in  my  drawing-room,  although  it  is  not  a  gift  from 


2S0  BALZAC 

you  :  you  don't  know ;"  she  said,  silling  down  on  the  knees  of 
Roger,  who  unable  lo  restrain  his  emotions,  had  sunk  into  an 
armchair.  "Listen  to  me  now;  I  intend  to  give  what  I  make 
by  my  embroidery  to  the  poor.  You  have  made  me  rich 
How  I  love  that  pretty  little  estate  at  Bellefeuille,  not  so  much 
for  what  it  is,  as  because  you  gave  it  me.  But  tell  me,  Roger, 
I  should  like  to  call  myself  Caroline  de  Bellefeuille,  can  I  ?  Is 
it  legal,  or  would  it  be  winked  at?" 

Seeing  Roger's  slight  gesture  of  assent,  which  was  inspired 
by  his  hatred  of  the  name  of  Crochard,  Caroline  gave  a  light 
skip  and  clapped  her  hands. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  she  cried,  "  that  I  shall  be  much  more 
your  own  like  that.  As  a  rule  a  girl  renounces  her  own  name, 
and  takes  that  of  her  husband."  A  troublesome  thought  which 
she  at  once  dismissed,  brought  the  color  to  her  cheeks.  She 
took  Roger's  hand  and  led  him  to  the  open  piano.  "  Listen," 
said  she,  "I  know  my  sonta  like  an  angel,  now;"  and  her 
fingers  had  begun  to  wander  over  the  ivory  keys,  when  sne 
felt  herself  seized  by  the  waist  and  borne  aloft. 

"  Caroline,  I  ought  to  be  far  away  from  here." 

"  You  want  to  go  ?  Well,  then,  away  with  you,"  said  she, 
pouting ;  but  she  smiled  when  she  looked  at  the  timepiece,  and 
joyously  exclaimed,  at  all  events  I  shall  have  kept  you  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  beyond  your  time." 

"  Farewell,  Madejtioiselle  de  Bellefeuille^^  said  he,  with  the 
gentle  irony  of  love.  . 

She  snatched  a  kiss'  and  accompanied  her  Roger  to  the 
door;  when  she  had  lost  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  on  the 
stairs,  she  ran  to  the  balcony,  to  watch  him  getting  into  his 
tilbury,  and  taking  the  reins  into  his  hands,  to  catch  his  last 
look,  hear  the  crack  of  his  whip  and  the  rattling  of  the  wheels 
upon  the  pavement ;  to  follow  with  her  eyes  the  gallant  horse, 
its  master's  hat,  the  gold  lace  on  the  groom's,  and  still  to  gaze 
long  after  the  dark  angle  of  t^e  street  had  hid  the  vision  from 
her  sight. 


A   DOUBLE  FAMILY.  "  281 

Five  years  after  the  installation  of  Caroline  de  Bellefeuille, 
in  the  pretty  house  in  the  Rue  Taitbout,  there  took  place  another 
of  those  domestic  scenes  which  draw  still  more  closely  the 
bonds  of  affection  between  two  beings  who  love  one  another, 

"  In  the  middle  of  the  blue  drawing  room,  in  front  of  the 
window  that  opened  on  to  the  balcony,  a  little  boy,  four-and-a- 
half  years  old,  was  making  a  most  infernal  noise,  as  he  whipped 
his  rocking-horse,  the  leg-sustaining  curves  of  which  were  not 
moving  fast  enough  to  suit  his  fancy.  His  pretty  little  head, 
covered  with  light  hair,  that  fell  down  upon  his  embroidered 
collar  in  a  thousand  curls,  assumed  an  angelic  smile  when  his 
mother  called  on  him  from  the  armchair  in  which  she  was 
plunged, — 

"  Not  so  much  noise,  Charles ;  you  will  wake  your  little 
sister." 

Thereupon,  the  inquisitive  child  dismounted  briskly  from 
his  horse,  stole  to  his  mother  on  tiptoe  as  if  he  dreaded  the 
noise  of  his  feet  upon  the  carpet,  placed  a  finger  between  his 
teeth,  and,  assuming  one  of  those  childish  attitudes  which  de- 
rive their  principal  charm  from  being  so  entirely  natural,  raised 
the  veil  of  white  muslin  which  covered  the  fresh  face  of  a 
little  girl,  who  was  sleeping  on  her  mother's  knee. 

"  Eugene  is  asleep,  then  ?"  said  he,  quite  astonished.  "  Why 
should  she  be  asleep  when  we  are  awake?"  he  added,  opening 
his  large  black  liquid  eyes. 

"  God  only  knows  why,"  replied  Caroline,  smiling. 

The  mother  and  child  gazed  at  the  little  girl,  who  had  been 
baptized  that  very  morning.  Caroline,  who  was  now  twenty- 
four  years  old,  was  in  the  full  bloom  of  that  beauty  which  un- 
clouded happiness  and  continuous  enjoyment  had  developed. 
In  Caroline,  the  woman  was  complete.  Only  too  glad  to  fall 
in  with  the  wishes  of  her  dear  Roger,  she  had  acquired  the 
accomplishments  which  she  lacked.  She  played  the  piano 
tolerably  well,  and  sang  agreeably.  Siie  was  ignorant  of  the 
usages  of  society,  which  would  have   rejected  her,  and  she 


282  BALZAC. 

would  not  have  frequented,  even  if  she  would  have  been 
welcomed  into  it ;  for  the  woman  who  is  happy  does  not  care 
about  society.  She  had  not  learned  those  drawing-room 
manners,  nor  that  drawing-room  style  of  conversation,  which  is 
so  full  of  words  and  void  of  ideas.  But  by  way  of  counter- 
poise, she  laboriously  acquired  that  knowledge  which  is  indis- 
pensable to  a  mother  whose  whole  ambition  is  to  bring  up  her 
children  well.  Her  only  pleasures  were  to  be  always  with  her 
boy,  to  give  him,  from  the  cradle,  those  perpetual  lessons  which 
imbue  the  hearts  of  the  young  with  a  taste  for  the  true  and 
the  beautiful,  to  preserve  him  from  every  evil  influence,  and  to 
fulfil  alike  the  troublesome  functions  of  the  nurse,  and  the 
sweet  obligations  of  the  mother. 

This  discreet  and  gentle  creature  had,  from  the  very  first,  so 
cheerfully  made  up  her  mind  to  keep  strictly  within  the 
charmed  circle  in  which  all  her  happiness  M'as  bound  up,  that 
after  six  years  of  the  most  affectionate  intimacy,  she  still  knew 
her  friend  only  by  the  name  of  Roger.  The  engraving  of  the 
picture  of  Psyche  coming  with  her  lamp  to  look  at  Cupid  in 
spite  of  his  prohibition,  hung  in  Caroline's  bedroom,  and 
reminded  her  of  the  conditions  of  her  happiness.  Not  once 
during  those  six  years  had  any  misplaced  ambition  on  her  part 
worried  the  heart  of  Roger,  which  was  a  real  treasure  of  good- 
ness. She  never  wanted  dresses  or  diamonds;  nor  did  her 
vanity  induce  her  to  accept  the  offer  of  a  carriage,  which  was 
twenty  times  repeated.  To  stand  on  the  balcony  and  wait  for 
Roger,  to  go  witli  him  to  the  theatre,  or  in  fine  weather  to  take  a 
walk  with  him  through  the  environs  of  Paris,  to  expect  him,  to 
see  him,  and  look  forward  to  seeing  him  again — such  was  the 
story  of  her  uneventful,  but  love-abounding  life. 

While  she  lulled  to  sleep  the  little  child  of  a  few  months  old 
that  was  lying  on  her  knee  she  took  pleasure  in  recalling  the 
memories  of  bygone  days.  She  dwelt  more  particularly  on  the 
month  of  September,  the  period  at  which  Roger  took  her  to 
Bellefeuille  to  enjoy  those  fine  days,  which  seem  to  belong  to 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  283 

every  season  in  turn.  At  that  time  of  year  nature  is  as  prodi- 
gal of  flowers  as  of  fruit;  the  evenings  are  warm,  the  morn- 
ings mild,  and  the  melancholy  of  autumn  often  gives  way  to 
the  brilliance  of  summer.  During  the  earlier  portion  of  their 
union,  Caroline  had  imputed  tfie  many  proofs  of  an  equable 
temperament  and  gentle  disposition  which  Roger  had  given 
her,  to  the  rarity  of  their  meetings,  and  to  their  mode  of  life, 
which  precluded  them  from  being,  like  husband  and  wife, 
always  together.  She  now  remembered  with  delight  how, 
tormented  with  idle  fears,  she  had  watched  him  with  fear  and 
trembling  during  their  first  visit  to  the  little  estate  in  the 
Gatinais.  Vain  espionage  of  love  1  Each  of  those  happy 
months  passed  like  a  dream,  amid  perpetual  happiness.  There 
was  always  a  smile  of  affection  upon  the  lips  of  that  excellent 
being, — a  smile  that  seemed  like  the  reflection  of  her  own. 
As  these  scenes  passed  too  vividly  befure  her,  her  eyes  grew 
moist  with  tears,  she  thought  she  was  not  affectionate  enough, 
and  fancied  she  could  see  in  the  misfortune  of  her  equivocal 
position,  a  sort  of  tax,  levied  by  destiny,  upon  her  love.  And 
then  an  invincible  curiosity  led  her  to  ponder  over  the  acci- 
dents of  existence,  which  could  induce  a  man  so  affectionate 
as  Roger,  to  confine  himself  to  a  clandestine  and  illicit  happi- 
ness. She  forged  a  thousand  romances,  simply  for  the  purpose 
of  sparing  herself  the  admission  of  the  true  reason,  long 
guessed  but  reluctantly  believed  by  her. 

She  rose,  with  her  baby  still  sleeping  in  her  arms,  and  went 
into  the  dining-room,  to  superintend  the  preparations  for 
dinner. 

It  was  the  6th  of  May,  1822,  the  anniversary  of  the  trip 
to  Saint-Leu  which  had  been  decisive  of  her  destiny;  so  that 
every  year,  as  that  day  came  round,  it  was  kept  as  a  festival  of 
the  heart.  Caroline  selected  the  table-linen,  and  ordered  the 
arrangement  of  the  dessert.  After  gladly  devoting  to  these 
details  the  minute  attentions  which  fascinated  Roger,  she 
placed  the  litile  girl  in  her  pretty  cradle,  went  to  ner  post  on 


284  BALZAC. 

the  balcony,  and  soon  descried  the  cabriolet  which  her  friend, 
now  arrived  at  full  maturity,  had  adopted,  instead  of  the 
tilbury  of  earlier  days.  After  having  sustained  a  first  dis- 
charge of  kisses  from  Caroline  and  the  little  rogue  who  called 
him  papa,  Roger  went  to  the  cradle,  watched,  for  a  time,  the 
slumbers  of  his  daughter,  kissed  her  little  forehead,  then 
drawing  from  his  coat  pocket  a  long  document  variegated  with 
black  lines,  he  said, — 

"  Caroline,  this  is  Mademoiselle  Eugenie  de  Bellefeuille's 
portion." 

The  mother  gratefully  accepted  the  dotal  deed,  which  was 
the  title  to  a  certain  sum  in  the  public  funds. 

"  Why  three  thousand  francs  a  year  for  Eugenie,  while  you 
have  given  Charles  only  fifteen  hundred  ?  " 

"  Charles,  will  be  a  man,  my  angel,"  replied  Roger.  "  Fif- 
teen hundred  francs  will  be  enough  for  him.  With  that  in- 
come a  man  of  energy  is  above  want.  If  your  son  should  be 
an  ordinary  man,  I  don't  wish  him  to  have  the  means  of  com- 
mitting follies.  If  he  is  ambitious,  the  narrowness  of  his 
means  will  inspire  him  with  a  taste  for  work.  Eugt^nie  is  a 
■woman,  and  must  not  be  portionless." 

The  father  now  began  to  play  with  Charles,  whose  unre- 
strained caresses  showed  the  independence  and  freedom  of 
his  bringing-up.  There  was  no  timidity  on  the  part  of  the  lad 
towards  his  father,  to  interfere  with  the  charm  which  rewards 
the  performance  of  the  duties  of  paternity.  The  gaiety  of  the 
little  family  was  both  gentle  and  genuine.  In  the  evening  a 
magic  lantern  displayed  upon  a  white  cloth  its  illusions  and 
mysterious  pictures,  to  the  great  surprise  of  Charles.  More 
than  once  the  ecstatic  joy  of  the  innocent  Utile  fellow,  drew 
■wild  shouts  of  laughter  from  Caroline  and  Roger.  When* 
later  in  the  evening,  the  little  boy  was  in  bed,  the  little  girl 
iiwoke  demanding  nourishment.  Seated  by  the  fire  in  that 
chamber  of  peace  and  pleasure,  Roger  gave  himself  up  to  the 
enjoyment  of  watching,  by  the  light  of  a  lamp,  the  soothing 


A  DOUBLE   FAMILY.  28^ 

picture  presented  by  the  child,  as  it  hung  on  Caroline's  breast, 
and  by  Caroline  herself,  white  and  fresh  as  a  new-blown  lily, 
with  her  hair  falling  down  in  a  thousand  brown  curls,  and  al- 
most hiding  her  neck.  •■  All  the  charms  of  the  young  mother 
stood  out  clearly  in  the  lamplight,  which  surrounded  her,  her 
dress,  and  the  child,  with  manifold  and  picturesque  effects'- 
produced  by  the  combination  of  light  and  shade.  The  calm 
and  silent  features  of  the  young  woman  seemed  to  Roger  a 
hundred  times  sweeter  than  they  had  ever  been.  Tender  was- 
the  look  with  which  he  gazed  at  the  curved  and  coral  lips 
which  had  never  uttered  a  disagreeable  word.  The  same 
thought  gleamed  in  the  eyes  of  Caroline,  who  watched  Roger 
furtively,  either  to  enjoy  the  effect  she  produced  on  him,  or  to- 
forecast  the  future  of  the  evening. 

Her  unknown  friend,  who  understood  the  coquetry  of  that 
subtle  look,  said  with  affected  sadness,  "  I  must  be  off  now ;  I 
have  a  stiff  bit  of  work  to  finish,  and  am  expected  at  home» 
Duty  before  everything;  isn't  that  right,  my  darling?" 

Caroline  scrutinized  him  sadly,  but  at  the  same  time  softly, 
then  with  that  resignation  which  disguises  none  of  the  sorrows- 
of  a  sacrifice,  she  said,  "  Adieu,  go  away.  If  you  stayed  an- 
other hour,  I  should  not  be  able  to  part  with  you  so  easily." 

"  My  angel."  answered  Roger,  smiling,  "  I  have  three  days'" 
leave  of  absence,  and  am  supposed  to  be  now  twenty  leagues 
away  from  Paris." 

One  morning,  a  few  days  after  this  anniversary  of  the  6th  of 
May,  Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille,  fearing  she  might  be  too 
late,  rushed  off  to  a  house  in  the  Rue  St.  Louis,  in  the  Marais, 
to  which  she  generally  paid  a  visit  once  a  week.  A  messenger 
had  come  to  inform  her  that  her  mother,  Madame  Crochaid, 
was  sinking  under  a  complication  of  sufferings,  caused  by  her 
catarrh  and  rheumatism.  While  the  driver  of  the  hackney 
coach,  stimulated  by  Caroline's  urgent  request,  backed  by  the 
promise  of  an  ample  gratuity,  was  lashing  his  horses  to  their 
utmost  speed,  the  timorous   old   dames   whom   the  Widow 


286  BALZAC. 

Crochard  had  gathered  around  her  by  way  of  society  in  her 
last  days,  introduced  a  priest  into  the  neat  and  comfortable 
second-floor  apartments,  occupied  by  the  whilom  ballet-dancer. 
Madame  Crochard's  servant  did  not  kno  v  that  the  pretty  girl 
at  whose  house  her  mistress  often  dined,  was  that  mistress's 
own  daughter ;  and  she  was  one  of  the  first  to  beg  that  a  con- 
fessor might  be  called  in,  hoping  that  that  ecclesiastic  might 
be  as  serviceable  to  her  as  to  her  mistress.  Between  two 
games  of  boston  or  while  strolling  in  the  Turkish  garden,  the 
old  women  with  whom  the  Widow  Crochard  gossiped  every 
day,  had  succeeded  in  awakening  in  the  frozen  bosom  of  their 
friend,  some  scruples  about  her  past  life,  some  ideas  about  the 
future,  some  fears  of  hell,  and  certain  hopes  of  pardon  founded 
on  a  sincere  repentance.  On  this  solemn  morning,  these  three 
old  women  from  the  Rue  St.  Frangois,  and  the  Vieille-Rue-du- 
Temple,  had  established  themselves  in  the  salon  in  which 
Madame  Crochard  entertained  them  every  Tuesday.  They 
took  it  in  turns  to  leave  their  armchairs,  to  go  and  sit  at  the 
head  of  the  sick-bed  to  keep  the  poor  old  woman  company, 
and  buoy  her  up  with  those  vain  hopes  with  which  we  soothe 
the  dying.  However,  when  the  crisis  seemed  to  them  to  be 
close  at  hand,  and  the  doctor,  who  had  been  called  in  on  the 
preceding  evening,  gave  no  hopes  of  the  widow,  the  three 
dames  took  counsel  together,  as  to  whether  it  was  necessary  to 
summon  Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille.  Fran^oise  having  given 
iier  opinion  on  the  matter,  it  was  determined  that  a  commis- 
sionaire should  go  to  the  Rue  Taitbout,  and  tell  the  news  to 
the  young  relative,  whose  influence  seemed  to  the  four  women 
so  formidable  ;  but  they  hoped  that  the  Auvergnat's  summons 
would  not  bring  the  young  woman,  who  had  so  large  a  share  in 
Madame  Crochard's  afl"ection,  till  all  was  over.  The  widow, 
who  clearly  had  an  income  of  a  thousand  crowns,  would  not 
have  been  so  carefully  nursed  by  that  trio  of  females,  but  for 
the  fact  that  none  of  those  good  friends,  nor  Fran^oise,  knew 
of  any  expectant  relative.     The  opulence  of  Mademoiselle  de 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  287 

Bellefeuille,  whom  Madame  Crochard,  following  the  customs 
of  the  old  Opera,  strictly  abstained  from  calling  by  the  sweet 
name  of  daughter,  almost  justified  the  plot  of  the  four  women, 
to  share  among  them  the  fortune  of  their  dying  friend. 

Shortly  afterwards,  the  particular  sibyl  who  was  keeping  guard 
over  the  patient,  popped  her  palsied  head  into  the  room  in 
which  her  anxious  coadjutors  were  sitting,  and  said,  "  It  is  time 
to  send  for  Monsieur  I'Abbe  Fontanon.  Two  hours  hence  she 
will  have  neither  head  nor  hand  to  write  a  single  word." 

Thereupon  the  toothless  old  servant  started  off  and  returned 
with  a  man  dressed  in  a  black  coat.  This  priest  had  a  vulgar 
face,  and  his  contracted  forehead  showed  a  narrow  mind; 
while  his  large  pendant  cheeks  and  double  chin  betokened  sel- 
fish prosperity.  His  powdered  hair  softened  the  aspect  of  his 
features,  until  he  raised  his  small  brown  prominent  eyes,  which 
would  not  have  seemed  out  of  place  beneath  the  eye  brows  of 
a  Tartar. 

*'  Monsieur  I'Abbe,"  said  Frangoise,  "  I  thank  you  for  your 
advice  j  but  you  may  be  sure  that  I  have  taken  the  utmost  care 
of  the  dear  woman." 

The  servant,  she  of  the  lagging  foot  and  mourning  face,  was 
silent  when  she  saw  that  the  door  of  the  apartments  was  open, 
and  that  the  most  insinuating  of  the  three  dowagers  had  sta-  "> 
tioned  herself  upon  the  landing,  in  order  to  be  the  first  to 
speak  to  the  confessor.  After  the  clergyman  had  endured  with 
complaisance  a  triple  broadside  of  honied  and  sanctimonious 
talk  from  the  friends  of  the  widow,  he  took  a  seat  by  Madame 
Crochard's  pillow.  Common  decency  and  a  certain  sense  of 
shame,  compelled  the  three  dames  and  old  Frangoise  to  remain 
in  the  salon,  where  they  assumed  for  each  other's  benefit,  airs 
of  grief  such  as  only  those  wrinkled  faces  could  produce  in 
such  perfection. 

"Ah,  isn't  it  sad?"  cried  Frangoise.  "This  is  the  fourth 
mistress,  now,  that  I  shall  have  the  pain  of  burying.  The  first 
left  me  an  annuity  of  a  hundred  francs ;  the  second  fifty  crowns, 


288  BALZAC. 

and  the  third  a  thousand  crowns.  After  thirty  years  in  service, 
that  is  all  I  possess."  Thereupon  the  servant  exercised  her 
privilege  of  coming  and  going,  to  ensconce  herself  in  a  little 
closet,  \\here  she  could  overhear  what  the  priest  said. 

"  It  gives  me  pleasure,"  Fontanon  was  saying,  "  to  find  that 
you  have  such  pious  sentiments,  my  daughter;  you  have  upon 
you  a  sacred  relic     .     .     .     ." 

Madame  Crochard  made  a  vague  movement,  which  seemed 
to  indicate  that  her  mind  was  wandering,  for  she  pointed  to  the 
imperial  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  The  priest  when  he 
caught  s'ght  of  the  Emperor's  head  started  back  one  step,  but, 
immediately  afterwards,  again  drew  near  to  his  penitent,  who 
held  some  conversation  with  him  in  so  low  a  tone  that  for  some 
moments  Fran9oise  heard  nothing. 

"A  curse  upon  me!"  suddenly  ejaculated  the  old  woman, 
"  jflon't  forsake  me.  What,  Monsieur  I'Abbe',  you  believe  that 
I  shall  have  to  answer  for  my  daughter's  soul  ?" 

The  priest  replied  in  too  low  a  tone,  and  the  partition  was 
too  thick,  for  Fran^oise  to  hear  his  answer. 

"  Alas,"  cried  the  widow,  shedding  tears,  "  the  wretch  has 
left  me  nothing  of  what  I  can  dispose.  When  he  took  my  poor 
Caroline,  he  separated  us,  and  only  gave  me  a  life  annuity  of 
3000  francs,  the  capital  of  which  belongs  to  my  daughter." 

"  Madame  has  a  daughter,  and  has  only  an  annuity,"  cried 
Fran9oise,  rushing  into  the  salon. 

The  three  old  women  looked  at  each  other  in  profound 
amazement.  One  of  them,  whose  nose  and  chin  almost  joined 
each  other,  and  seemed  thereby  to  confer  upon  her  the  palm 
of  hypocrisy  and  cunning,  winked,  and  so  soon  as  Frangoise's 
back  was  turned,  made  a  sign  to  her  two  friends,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  She  is  a  knowing  creature ;  she  has  already  had  three 
legacies." 

So  the  three  old  women  made  up  their  minds  to  stay.  But 
the  clergyman  soon  reappeared,  and  when  he  had  said  one 
word  to  them,  the  \yitches  hobbled  down  the  stairs  togetlier 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  281) 

after  hira,  leaving  Frangoise  alone  with  her  mistress.  It  was 
all  very  well  for  Madame  Crochard,  whose  sufi'erings  were  be- 
coming more  and  more  intense,  to  ring  for  her  servant  now ; 
Frangoise  contented  herself  with  calling  out  "  Coming,  coming 
directly." 

Cupboard-doors  and  wardrobe-doors  were  opening  and 
shutting,  as  if  Fran^oise  were  looking  for  some  lottery-ticket 
that  had  been  mislaid.  Just  as  this  crisis  was  at  its  climax, 
Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille  reached  her  mother's  bedside,  to 
lavish  on  her  sweet  words  of  comfort. 

"Oh,  my  poor  mother,  what  a  criminal  I  am  !  you  are  in 
pain,  and  I  knew  nothing  of  it;  my  heart  did  not  tell  it  me. 
But  he^e  I  am.     .     .     ." 

"  CaroHne." 
,    "What,  mother?" 

"  They  brought  a  priest  to  me." 

"  They  should  have  fetched  a  doctor,"  said  Mademoiselle 
de  Bellefeuille.  "  A  doctor,  Frangoise  !  How  is  it  that  these 
women  did  not  send  for  a  doctor?" 

"  They  brought  me  a  priest,"  continued  the  old  woman  with 
a  sigh. 

"  How  she  suffers  !  and  no  sedative — nothing,  on  the  table  1*^ 

The  mother  made  a  vague  sign,  which  Caroline's  penetrat- 
ing eye  understood,  for  she  kept  silence,  that  her  mother  might 
speak. 

"  They  brought  me  a  priest — under  pretence  of  getting  me 
to  confess.  Caroline,  beware,"  groaned  the  whilom  ballet  girl, 
making  a  final  effort ;  "  the  priest  extracted  from  me  the  name 
of  your  benefactor." 

"  But  who  couldhave  told  it  you,  my  poor  mother?" 

In  the  attempt  to  assume  a  knowing  look,  the  old  woman 
died.  If  Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille  could  have  observed 
her  mother's  face  she  would  have  seen  what  no  one  will  ever 
see — Death  smiling. 

In  order  to  understand  the  interest  which  underlies  the 
s 


290  BALZIC. 

introduction  to  this  scene,  we  must  for  a  moment  forget  tlic 
actors  in  it,  and  listen  to  the  recital  of  certain  anterior  events, 
the  last  of  which  is  closely  connected  with  the  death  of  Madame 
Crochard.  The  two  parts  will  then  form  one  story,  which,  in 
obedience  to  a  law  peculiar  to  life  in  Paris,  divides  itself  into 
two  distinct  series  of  events. 

Towards  the  end  of  November,  1805,  a  young  advocate, 
about  twenty-six  years  of  age,  was  descending,  at  about  three 
o'clock,  a.m.,  the  grand  staircase  of  the  hotel  inhabited  by  the 
arch-chancellor  of  the  empire.  When  he  reached  the  court, 
dressed  as  he  was  in  ball-room  attire,  a  fine  sleet  was  falling. 
He  could  not  restrain  an  expression  of  disgust — not,  however, 
entirely  devoid  of  that  gaiety  which  rarely  forsakes  a  French- 
man,— ^^il^en,  on  peering  through  the  railings  of  the  hotel,  he 
could  neither  discover  any  hackney-coach  nor  hear  the  sound 
of  horses'  hoofs,  or  the  hoarse  voices  of  the  Parisian  hackney 
coachmen.  The  silence  was  broken  only  by  the  impatient 
feet  of  the  horses  of  the  grand  judge  (whom  the  young  man 
had  left  at  the  card-table  of  M.  Cambacerbs)  as  they  pawed  the 
pavement  of  the  court  of  the  hotel  which  was  dimly  lighted  by 
the  carriage-lamps. 

All  at  once  the  young  man  received  a  friendly  slap  on  the 
shoulder,  and  turning  round  recognized  and  saluted  the  grand 
judge,  who  just  as  his  footman  was  letting  down  the  carriage- 
steps,  guessed  the  young  man's  difficulty. 

"  In  the  night  all  cats  are  grey,"  said  he  gaily.  "  The  grand 
judge  will  not  compromise  himself  if  he  gives  a  lift  to  an  advo- 
cate— especially  when  that  advocate  is  the  nephew  of  an  old 
colleague  who  was  one  of  the  luminaries  of  the  grand  State 
Council  which  gave  the  Code  NapoMon  to  France."  At  a  gesture 
of  the  supreme  chief  of  the  imperial  judges,  the  pedestrian 
stepped  into  the  carriage. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?"  inquired  the  minister  of  the  advocate, 
before  the  footman,  who  was  waiting  for  directions,  closed  the 
door. 


A  DOUBLE   FAMILY.  291 

*'Quai  des  Augustins,  mouscigneur."  The  horses  started 
ofiF  and  the  young  man  found  himself  alone  with  the  minister, 
whom  both  before  and  after  Cambace'res'  sumptuous  dinner, 
he  had  endeavored  to  accost,  but  in  vain;  for  the  grand  judge 
had  visibly  avoided  him  throughout  the  evening. 

"  Well,  Monsieur  de  Granville  you  are  in  a  fair  road — " 

"  So  long  as  I  am  by  the  side' of  your  Excellency." 

"  I  am  not  joking,"  said  the  minister.  "  You  were  admitted 
to  the  bar  two  years  ago,  and  your  conduct  of  the  defence  in 
the  Simeuse  and  D'Hauteserre  affair  has  given  you  a  high 
position." 

"  I  thought  until  now,  that  my  devotion  to  those  unfortu- 
nate emigtes  had  done  me  harm." 

"You  are  very  young,"  said  the  minister  gravely ;  then  after 
a  pause  he  continued,  "  you  created  a  very  favorable  impres- 
sion on  the  High  Chancellor  this  evening.  Join  the  magistracy 
of  the  parquet ;  we  are  in  want  of  men.  The  nephew  of  a 
man  in  whom  Cambacerbs  and  I  take  so  lively  an  interest 
must  not  remain  an  advocate  for  want  of  patronage.  Your 
uncle  helped  us  to  weather  some  very  stormy  times,  and  such 
services  as  those  are  not  to  be  forgotten." 

Here  the  minister  paused  for  a  moment. 

"  In  a  short  time,"  continued  he,  "  I  shall  have  three  places 
vacant  at  the  tribunal  of  first  instance,  and  at  the  court  im- 
perial of  Paris ;  come  and  see  me  then,  and  choose  whichever 
of  them  you  prefer.  Till  then  work  on,  but  don't  present 
yourself  at  my  audiences ;  for,  in  the  first  place,  I  am  over- 
whelmed with  business ;  and  in  the  second,  your  competitors 
might  guess  your  object,  and  injure  you  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Emperor.  Cambacerbs  and  I,  in  not  speaking  to  you  this 
evening,  have  saved  3'ou  from  the  perils  which  beset  a  favorite." 

As  the  minister  concluded,  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  Quai 
des  Augustins  ;  the  young  advocate  thanked  his  generous  pro- 
tector with  great  emotion  (or  the  tivo  seats  which  he  had  given 
liira,  and  began  to  thunder  at  his  door ;  for  the  north-east  wind 


292  BALZAC. 

was  whistling  about  the  calves  of  his  legs  with  great  severity. 
The  bolt  of  the  door  was  at  length  withdrawn  by  the  old  porter. 
As  the  advocate  passed  the  lodge,  the  porter  called  to  him  in 
a  hoarse  voice,  "  Monsieur  Granville,  there  is  a  letter  for  you." 
The  young  man  took  it,  and,  in  spite  of  the  cold,  tried  to  read 
the  address  by  the  feeble  light  of  a  lamp,  whose  wick  was  well- 
nigh  burnt  out.  *'  It  is  from  my  father,"  said  he,  taking  his 
candle,  which  the  porter  had  at  last  succeeded  in  lighting. 
Then  he  went  quickly  up  to  his  apartments,  and  read  the  fol- 
lowing letter : — 

"  Take  the  express,  and  if  you  can  get  here  quickly,  your 
fortune  is  made.  Mademoiselle  Angelique  Bontems  has  lost 
her  sister ;  so  she  is  now  an  only  daughter,  and  we  know  she 
does  not  hate  you.  Now,  Madame  Bontems  has  it  in  her 
power  to  leave  her  nearly  40,000  francs  a  year,  besides  the 
marriage  portion  which  she  will  give  her.  I  have  smoothed 
the  way.  Our  friends  will  be  astonished  to  sec  members  of 
the  old  nobility  intermarrying  with  the  Bontems  family.  Bon- 
tems, the  father,  a  red  republican  of  the  deepest  dye,  picked 
up  a  number  of  the  national  estates  at  a  very  cheap  price.  But, 
in  the  first  place,  it  was  church  property,  and  will  therefore 
never  be  restored ;  secondly,  since  you  have  already  stooped  to 
the  position  of  an  advocate,  I  do  not  see  why  we  should  recoil 
from  another  concession  to  existing  ideas.  The  girl  will  have 
300,000  francs ;  I  will  give  you  100,000;  your  mother's  pro- 
perty must  be  worth  150,000  crowns,  or  thereabouts.  Thus, 
then,  my  dear  son,  I  see  you  in  a  position  if  you  choose  to  join 
the  magistracy,  to  become  a  senator,  just  like  any  one  else. 
My  brother-in-law,  the  Councillor  of  State,  will  not  give  you  a 
helping  hand  towards  that,  of  course;  but,  as  he  is  a  bachelor,  his 
fortune  will  come  to  you  some  day,  so  that  if  you  should  not 
get  a  senatorship  upon  your  own  merits,  you  will  succeed  to  his. 
Then  you  will  be  perched  high  enough  to  see  how  events  are 
likely  to  turn  out.     Adieu.     I  embrace  you." 

Thus,  then,  young  De  Granville  went  to  bed,  framing  a 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  293 

thousand  project?,  each  brighter  than  (he  last.  Under  the 
powerful  patronage  of  the  Grand  Judge,  and  of  his  maternal 
uncle,  one  of  the  compilers  of  the  code,  he  was  about  to  make 
a  start  in  an  enviable  position  in  the  first  court  in  the  empire, 
and  would  be  a  member  of  that  parquet  whence  Napoleon 
selected  Ihc  chief  functionaries  of  his  empire.  Then,  ready  to 
his  hand,  there  presented  itself  a  fortune  large  enough  to  help 
him  to  maintain  his  rank,  as  he  could  not  have  done  on  his 
meagre  income  of  5,000  francs,  derived  from  an  estate  which 
had  once  formed  part  of  his  mother's  property.  That  happi- 
ness might  be  added  to  his  ambitious  dreams,  he  conjured  up 
the  artless  face  of  Mademoiselle  Angelique  Bontems,  the  play- 
mate of  his  childhood.  So  long  as  he  had  not  arrived  at  years 
of  discretion,  his  father  and  mother  had  not  opposed  his  inti- 
macy with  the  pretty  daughter  of  their  country  neighbor;  but 
when,  during  the  brief  visits  which  his  vacations  enabled  him 
to  pay  toBayeux,  his  parents,  who  were  bigots  in  the  matter 
of  nobility,  perceived  his  liking  for  the  young  girl,  they  forbade 
him  to  think  about  her.  So  that  during  the  last  ten  years 
Granville  had  only  been  able  to  catch  momentary  glimpses  of 
her  whom  he  used  to  call  his  little  wife.  During  these  moments 
stolen  from  the  active  surveillance  of  their  families,  they  had 
been  barely  able  to  exchange  a  few  vague  words  in  passing 
each  other  at  church  or  in  the  street.  Their  happiest  days 
were  those  when  they  were  brought  together  by  one  of  those 
rural  fetes  which  in  Normandy  are  called  assemblies,  and  looked 
at  one  another  furtively  and  from  afar.  During  his  last  holi- 
day Granville  had  seen  Angelique  twice ;  and  the  downcast 
look  and  melancholy  attitude  of  his  little  wife  led  him  to 
believe  that  she  was  being  subjected  to  some  secret  tyranny. 

By  seven  o'clock  the  next  morning  the  young  advocate  was 
at  the  coach-office  in  the  Rue  Notre-Dame  des-Victoires,  and 
was  lucky  enough  to  find  room  in  the  vehicle  which  started  for 
Caen  at  that  hour. 

Deep  was  the  emotion  with  which  the  sucking  advocate 


294)  BALZAC. 

caught  sight  once  more  of  the  steeples  of  Bayexix  cathedral. 
As  yet,  none  of  his  aspirations  had  been  defeated,  so  that  his 
heart  expanded  under  the  influence  of  the  beautiful  feelings 
which  animate  the  young.  After  the  protracted  congratulatory 
banquet  prepared  for  him  by  his  father  and  some  of  his  friends, 
was  over,  the  impatient  youth  was  conducted  to  a  certain  house 
situated  in  the  Rue  Teinture,  and  well  known  to  him.  His 
heart  beat  violently  as  his  father — who  at  Bayeux  was  stil) 
called  as  Comte  de  Granville — knocked  so  loudly  at  the 
carriage-gates,  that  the  green  paint  fell  from  them  in  scales.  It 
was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  A  young  maid- 
servant, with  a  white  cotton  cap  upon  her  head,  greeted  the 
two  gentlemen  with  a  little  courtesy,  and  told  them,  in  answer 
to  their  inquiries,  that  the  two  ladies  would  soon  be  back  from 
vespers.  The  count  and  his  son  entered  a  low-pitched  hall, 
which  was  used  as  a  drawing-room,  and  looked  like  a  convent 
parlor.  A  ceiling  of  polished  walnut-wood  gave  a  gloomy 
aspect  to  the  room,  round  which  some  tapestry — covered  chairs, 
and  antique  armchairs  were  symmetrically  ranged.  The  only 
ornament  of  the  stone  chimney-piece  was  a  mirror  of  greenish 
glass,  from  either  side  of  which  projected  the  tortuous  branches 
of  a  pair  of  those  old  candelabra  such  as  were  manufactured  at 
the  epoch  of  the  Peace  of  Utrecht.  Against  the  wainscot, 
and  opposite  to  the  chimney-piece,  young  Granville  noticed  an 
enormous  crucifix  of  ebony  and  ivory,  surrounded  by  conse- 
crated box-wood.  Although  the  room  had  three  windows, 
looking  into  a  country  garden,  whose  syminelrical  squares 
were  bordered  with  long  lines  of  box,  so  little  daylight  enteretl 
the  room,  that  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  three  ecclesiasti- 
cal pictures,  which  were  the  work  of  some  skilful  brush,  and 
had  doubtless  been  purchased,  during  the  Revolution,  by  old 
Bontems,  who,  in  his  capacity  of  leader  of  the  district,  never 
forgot  his  own  interests.  From  the  carefully  polished  floor,  to 
the  curtains,  with  their  square  green  pattern,  everything  shone 
with  a  monastic  neatness.     The  heart  of  the  young  man  in- 


A  DOUBLE  fa:mily.  295 

voluntarily  shrank  within  him,  in  that  still  retreat,  which 
formed  the  home  of  Angelique.  His  continual  habit  of 
frequenting  the  brilliant  drawing-rooms  of  Paris,  and  the 
vortex  of  gaiety  in  which  he  lived,  had  readily  effaced  from 
the  memory  of  Granville  the  sombre  and  peaceful  life,  led  by 
the  denizens  of  the  provinces.  The  contrast  was  so  sudden, 
that  it  caused  him  an  internal  shudder.  To  quit  one  of  the 
assemblies  of  Cambaceres,  where  existence  was  on  so  grand  a 
scale,  where  large  minded  men  abounded,  and  where  the  gloiy 
of  the  emperor  was  reflected,  and  fall  suddenly  into  a  circle  of 
petty  ideas,  was  like  being  transported  from  Italy  to  Green- 
land. "To  live  here,  is  not  to  live  at  all,"  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  looked  at  the  methodistical  salo7i.  The  old  count,  who 
observed  his  son's  astonishment,  led  him  to  a  window,  through 
which  a  little  daylight  was  struggling,  and  while  the  servant 
lighted  the  old  wax  candles,  tried  to  dissipate  the  clouds 
which  the  aspect  of  the  room  had  piled  on  Granville's  brow. 

"Listen  to  me,  my  boy,"  said  the  count;  "old  Bontems' 
widow  is  furiously  sanctimonious.  When  the  devil  grew  old — 
you  know  the  saying.  I  see  that  the  aspect  of  the  room  rather 
sets  your  teeth  on  edge.  Well,  the  truth  is  this.  The  old 
woman  is  besieged  by  the  priests ;  they  have  persuaded  her 
that  it  is  never  too  late  to  win  heaven ;  and  to  make  sure  of 
St.  Peter  and  his  keys,  she  buys  them.  She  goes  to  mass 
every  day,  hears  all  the  services,  communicates  every  Sunday 
that  God  gives  us,  and  amuses  herself  by  restoring  chapels. 
She  has  presented  to  the  cathedral  so  many  ornaments,  aubes, 
and  copes,  she  has  covered  the  dais  with  so  many  plumes, 
that,  at  the  procession  of  the  last  Fete  Dieu,  there  was  as 
great  a  crowd  to  see  the  magnificent  dresses  of  the  priests,  and 
the  newly-gilded  cups  and  plates,  as  there  ever  was  at  an 
execution.  So  that  this  house  is  a  regular  Holy  Land.  It 
was  I  who  prevented  the  old  madwoman  from  presenting  these 
three  pictures  to  the  church;  look  you,   a  Dominichino,   a 


29G  BALZAC. 

Correggio,  and  an  Andrd  del  Sarto,  which  are  worth  a  lot  of 
money." 

"But  about  Ange'lique  i"'  said  the  young  man  sharply. 

"If  you  don't  marry  her,  Angdlique  is  lost,"  said  the  count. 
"Our  good  apostles  have  advised  ber  to  live  and  die  a  virgin 
and  a  martyr.  It  took  me  an  infinite  amount  of  trouble  to 
rouse  her  little  heart  by  talking  about  you ;  that  was  as  soon 
as  I  saw  that  she  was  an  only  daughter.  But  you  see  at  a 
glance  that,  as  soon  as  you  are  married,  you  will  carry  her  off 
to  Paris.  There,  what  with  marriage,  dissipation,  theatres,  and 
the  torrent  of  Parisian  life,  she  will  soon  forget  confessionals, 
fasts,  hair  shirts,  and  masses,  which  are  meat  and  drink  to 
these  creatures." 

"  But  won't  the  50,000  francs  per  annum,  the  spoils  of  the 
Church,  go  back  to  the    .     .     .?" 

"There  we  are  !"  said  the  count,  with  a  look  of  subtlety. 
"  In  consideration  of  the  marriage — for  the  vanity  of  Madame 
Bontems  was  not  a  little  tickled  at  the  notion  of  engrafting 
the  Bontems  on  the  genealogical  tree  of  the  Granvilles — the 
aforesaid  mother  gives  the  corpus  of  her  fortune  to  her  daugh- 
ter, reserving  to  herself  only  a  life  interest.  You  will  have  the 
prettiest  girl  in  Bayeux,  a  little  gossip  who  will  cause  you  no 
anxiety,  because  she  will  be  a  woman  of  principle.  She  has 
been  moitified,  as  they  term  it  in  their  jargon,  by  prayer  and 
fasting,  and,"  added  the  count  in  a  low  voice,  "by  her 
mother." 

A  gentle  rap  at  the  door  stopped  the  flow  of  the  count's 
eloquence ;  for  he  thought  he  saw  the  two  ladies  coming  in. 
But  it  was  a  busy-looking  little  page  who  entered.  Overawed 
at  the  sight  of  the  two  gentlemen,  he  beckoned  to  the  maid- 
servant, who  went  up  to  him.  The  lad  wore  a  waistcoat  of 
blue  cloth  with  little  flaps  which  hung  about  his  thighs,  and 
blue  and  white  striped  trowsers ;  his  hair  was  cropped  all 
round;  his  face  looked  like  that  of  a  chorister;  so  strongly 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  297 

did  it  savor  of  that  forced  sanctimoniousness  which  all  the 
inhabitants  of  a  methodislical  household  acquire. 

"  Mademoiselle  Gatienne,  do  )  ou  know  where  the  books  for 
the  Service  of  the  Virgin  are  ?  The  ladies  of  the  Congrega- 
tion of  the  Sacred  Heart  are  going  to  have  a  procession  in  the 
church  this  evening." 

Gatienne  went  to  look  for  the  books. 

"Will  it  last  much  longer,  my  little  militia  man?"  asked  the 
count. 

"  Oh,  half  an  hour,  sir,  at  the  utmost." 

"  Let  us  go  and  look  at  it,  there  are  some  pretty  women  to 
be  seen,"  said  the  father  to  the  son.  "  Besides,  a  visit  to  the 
cathedral  can't  do  us  any  harm." 

The  young  advocate  followed  his  father  with  an  air  of  irre- 
solution, 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  the  count. 

"  The  matter  is,  father, — the  matter  is, — that  I  am  right." 

"  Right  ?     Why  you  have  said  nothing  yet." 

"True,  but  it  has  occurred  to  me  that  you  have  saved 
10,000  francs  a  year  from  the  wreck  of  your  former  fortune; 
you  will  leave  them  to  me  at  as  distant  a  date  as  possible,  I 
hope.  But  if  you  give  me  ico,ooo  francs  to  make  a  stupid 
marriage,  you  will  allow  me  to  ask  you  for  50,000  of  them  to 
avert  a  calamity,  and  enjoy,  while  preserving  my  bachelorhood, 
a  fortune  equal  to  that  which  your  Demoiselle  Bontems  would 
bring  me." 

"Are you  mad?" 

"  No,  father.  The  fact  is  this.  The  grand  judge  promised 
me  on  the  day  before  yesterday  a  place  in  'Ca^  parquet  of  Paris. 
Now  50,000  francs  added  to  what  I  have,  and  to  the  salary 
attached  to  my  office,  will  yield  me  an  iticome  of  12,000.  I 
shall  then,  assuredly,  have  opportunities  for  making  my  fortune, 
a  thousand  times  preferable  to  those  afforded  by  a  marriage 
as  bankrupt  in  happiness  as  it  is  rich  in  money." 

"  It  is  easy  to  see,"  said  the  father,  smiling,  "that^e?^  didn't 


298  BALZAC. 

live  under  the  old  regime ;  are  we  men  ever  shackled  by  hav- 
ing a  wife,  think  you  ?" 

'*  But,  father,  in  the  present  age  marrioge  has  become  .  .  ." 
"Ah,  then,"  said  the  count,  interrupting  his  son,  "all  that 
my  old  companions  in  emigration  tell  me,  is  really  true?  The 
revolution  has  bequeathed  to  us  manners  devoid  of  gaiety, 
and  infected  our  young  men  with  equivocal  principles?  You 
are  going,  just  like  my  Jacobin  brother-in-law,  to  preach  to  me 
about  the  nation,  public  morality,  and  disinterestedness.  O 
my  God,  but  for  the  emperor's  sisters,  what  would  become  of 
us?" 

They  were  under  the  roof  of  the  cathedral  as  these  last 
words  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  still  lusty  old  man,  who  was 
always  called  by  the  peasants  on  his  estate,  "  Le  Seigneur  de 
Granville."  Heedless  of  the  sanctity  of  the  spot  he  hummed  as 
he  dipped  his  fingers  into  the  holy  water,  an  air  from  ihe  opera, 
*'  Rose  et  Colas  ;"  and  while  conducting  his  son  along  the  side 
aisles  of  the  nave,  he  stopped  at  each  pillar  to  take  a  look  at  the 
body  of  the  church,  with  its  rows  of  heads  ranged  in  line,  like 
soldiers  on  parade.  The  appropriate  service  of  the  Sacred 
Heart  was  on  the  point  of  beginning.  The  ladies  belonging 
to  that  society  being  placed  near  the  choir,  the  count  and  his 
son  made  their  way  to  that  part  of  the  nave,  and  stood  wiili 
their  backs  against  one  of  the  darkest  pillars,  whence  they 
could  perceive  the  entire  group  of  heads,  which  had  the  appear- 
ance of  a  prairie  enamelled  with  flowers.  Suddenly,  from  a 
spot  not  more  than  two  paces  from  young  Granville,  a  voice 
which  seemed  too  sweet  to  belong  to  a  human  being,  rang  out 
clear  as  the  notes  of  the  first  nightingale  that  sings  to  welcome 
the  return  of  spring.  Though  accompanied  by  a  thousand 
female  voices  and  the  organ,  this  voice  acted  on  the  nerves  as 
if  they  had  been  attacked  by  the  over-rich  and  vivid  tones  of 
the  harmonica.  The  Parisian  turned  round  and  saw  a  young 
woman,  whose  face  was,  in  consequence  of  the  bending  of  the 
head,  completely  ouried  beneath  a  iaige  hat  oi  whi;e  material. 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  29D 

He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  could  only  be  from  her  that 
this  clear  melody  proceeded.  He  fancied  he  recognized  Ang^- 
Hquc,  in  spite  of  the  pelisse  of  brown  merino  in  which  the  girl 
was  wrapped,  and  he  nudged  his  father's  arm. 

"  Yes,  it  is  she,"  said  the  count,  after  looking  in  the  direc- 
tion indicated  by  his  son.  The  old  seigneur  pointed  to  the 
pale  face  of  an  old  woman,  whose  eyes,  deeply  bordered  with 
dark  circles,  had  already  descried  the  strangers,  though  her 
deceptive  glance  had  not  appeared  to  quit  the  prayer-book  in 
her  hand.  Angelique  looked  up  towards  the  altar,  as  if  to 
inhale  the  penetrating  perfumes  of  the  incense,  whose  clouds 
floated  to  the  spot  where  the  two  women  were  stationed.  Then 
by  the  weird  mysterious  light  spread  through  the  vast  and 
sombre  building  by  the  tapers  which  were  burning  on  the  altar, 
by  the  lamp  that  depended  from  the  centre  of  the  nave,  and  by 
sundiy  wax  candles  that  were  fixed  against  the  pillars  of  the 
cathedral,  the  youthful  advocate  caught  sight  of  a  countenance 
which  completely  overthrew  his  resolutions. 

Under  a  white  mohair  hat  he  saw  a  set  of  features  of  wonderful 
regularity,  to  which  the  black  satin  strings  of  the  hat,  meeting 
in  a  bow  beneath  the  dimpled  chin,  formed  a  perfect  oval 
frame.  Hair  of  a  pale  gold  color  was  parted  into  two  band?, 
over  a  narrow  but  pretty  little  forehead,  and  fell  upon  the 
cheeks  like  the  shadow  of  foliage  upon  a  tuft  of  flowers.  The 
two  ;  yebrows  were  traced  with  that  regularity  which  one  .'id- 
mires  in  beautiful  Chinese  faces.  There  was  a  rare  firmness 
in  the  outlines  of  the  almost  aquiline  nose,  and  the  two  lips 
resembled  two  rosy  lines  traced  con  amore  by  a  delicate  hand. 
In  the  expression  of  the  pale  blue  eyes  there  was  much  candor. 
If  Granville  observed  in  this  face  a  sort  of  taciturn  rigidity,  he 
might  well  ascribe  it  to  the  devotional  feelings,  by  which 
Angelique  was  at  that  moment  inspired.  The  sacred  words  of 
prayer  passed  through  two  rows  of  pearls,  and  the  cold  air  con- 
densed the  breath  into  a  cloud,  as  it  were,  of  incense.  The 
young  man  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  lean  forward  and 


SCO  BALZAC. 

inhale  th:  divine  breath.  This  movement  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  the  young  girl,  and  the  steady  gaze  which  had  been 
fixed  upon  the  altar  was  now  turned  upon  Granville,  in  whom, 
though  the  dim  light  prevented  her  from  seeing  him  distinctly, 
she  recognized  the  companion  of  her  childhood.  A  souvenir 
more  powerful  than  the  spirit  of  prayer  gave  an  unnatural 
brightness  to  her  face  ;  she  blushed.  The  advocate,  trembled 
with  joy  at  beholding  the  hopes  of  the  life  to  come  vanquished 
by  the  hopes  of  love ;  the  glory  of  the  sanctuary  eclipsed  by 
the  memories  of  earth.  But  his  triumph  was  of  brief  duration. 
Angelique  dropped  her  veil  over  her  face,  assumed  a  calm 
appearance,  and  resumed  her  singing,  without  betraying  in  her 
voice  the  slightest  emotion.  Meanwhile  he  found  himself 
under  the  influence  of  a  single  desire,  and  all  his  prudential 
ideas  vanished.  When  the  service  was  over,  his  impatience 
had  become  so  great,  that  instead  of  allowing  the  two  ladies  to 
go  home  alone,  he  went  straight  up  to  his  little  wife  and 
accosted  her.  A  recognition,  timid  on  both  sides,  took  place 
beneath  the  church  porch,  in  the  presence  of  the  faithful. 
Madame  Bontems  trembled  with  pride  as  she  took  the  arm  of 
the  Comte  de  Granville,  who,  being  compelled  to  offer  it  in 
the  presence  of  so  many  persons,  bore  his  son  no  good  will  for 
his  indecent  impetuosity. 

During  the  fortnight  which  elapsed  between  the  official  pre- 
sentation of  the  young  Vicomte  de  Granville  as  the  intended 
husband  of  Mademoiselle  Bontems  and  the  day  fixed  for  the 
solemn  ceremony,  he  assiduously  paid  his  respects  to  Angdlique 
in  the  sombre  parlor,  and  grew  accustomed  to  it.  The  object 
of  his  long  visits  was  to  study  the  disposition  of  Ange'lique,  for 
his  prudence  had  luckily  been  aroused  on  the  morrow  of  their 
first  interview.  He  always  found  his  future  wife  seated  before 
a  little  table  of  Saint  Lucia  wood,  employed  in  marking  the 
linen  of  her  trousseau.  Angdique  never  introduced  the  sub- 
ject of  religion.  If  the  young  advocate  began  to  :oy  with  the 
rich  rosary  which  was  kept  in  a  small  green  velvet  bag,  or 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  801 

smiled  at  the  relic  which  always  accompanies  that  implement 
of  devotion,  Angdlique  with  a  beseeching  look,  would  gently 
take  the  rosary  from  his  hands,  and,  without  saying  a  single 
word,  replace  it  in  the  bag,  and  put  it  away.  If  Granville  in  a 
spirit  of  mischief  sometimes  ventured  to  declaim  against  cer- 
tain religious  practices,  the  pretty  Normandy  girl  listened  and 
encountered  him  with  a  smile  of  conviction,  "  You  must 
believe  nothing,  or  believe  all  that  the  Church  teaches,"  was 
her  reply.  "Would  you  like  to  have  an  irreligious  girl  for  the 
mother  of  your  children  ?  No.  Where  is  the  man  who  would 
dare  to  judge  between  God  and  unbelievers?  Well,  then, 
how  can  I  find  fault  with  that  which  the  Church  receives?" 
Angdlique  seemed  to  be  inspired  with  such  pathetic  charity, 
the  young  advocate  observed  such  touching  looks  directed  to 
himself,  that  he  was  sometimes  tempted  to  embrace  the  reli- 
gious views  of  his  intended  bride.  Her  profound  belief  that 
she  was  walking  in  the  right  path,  awakened  in  the  heart 
of  the  young  aspirant  to  the  magistracy,  doubts,  by  which 
he  endeavored  to  profit.  Granville  now  committed  the  enor- 
mous blunder  of  mistaking  the  charm  of  desire  for  that  of  love. 
Ange'lique  was  so  glad  to  reconcile  the  dictates  of  the  heart, 
with  the  dictates  of  duty,  by  yielding  to  an  attachment  formed 
in  early  childhood,  that  the  deluded  advocate  could  not  dis- 
cover which  of  the  two  voices  was  the  stronger.  Are  not  all 
young  men  disposed  to  rely  upon  the  promises  of  a  pretty  face, 
to  infer  that  where  there  is  beauty  of  feature,  there  is  beauty 
of  heart  ?  An  indefinable  feeling  impels  them  to  believe  that 
moral  and  physical  perfection  always  accompany  each  other. 
If  religion  had  forbidden  Angelique  to  allow  free  play  to  her 
feeling?,  they  would  have  withered  in  her  bosom  as  quickly  as 
a  plant  would  wither,  if  sprinkled  with  some  deadly  acid. 
Could  a  man  who  loved  and  was  beloved  discover  the  exist- 
ence of  such  well-concealed  fanaticism  ? 

Such  is  the  history  of  voung  Granville,  during  this  fortnight 
which  he  jralloped  through,  as  we  gallop  throuf^h  a  book,  wher> 


o02  BALZAC. 

we  want  to  know  how  it  ends,  Ange'Hque,  when  carfully 
studied,  seemed  to  be  the  gentlest  of  women  ;  he  experienced, 
to  his  surprise,  a  feeling  of  gratitude  to  Madame  Bontems, 
who,  by  imbuing  her  daughter  so  strongly  with  religious  senti- 
ments, had  in  some  sort  prepared  her  for  life's  cares  and 
troubles. 

On  the  day  appointed  for  the  signing  of  the  fatal  contract, 
Madame  Bontems  extorted  from  her  son-in-law  a  solemn  oath 
that  he  would  not  interfere  with  the  religious  practices  of  her 
daughter,  that  he  would  give  her  entire  liberty  of  conscience, 
would  allow  her  to  communicate,  to  go  to  church,  and  to  con- 
fession, as  often  as  she  felt  inclined,  and  would  never  thwart 
her  in  the  choice  of  a  confessor.  At  that  solemn  moment, 
Angdlique  looked  at  her  future  husband  with  an  air  of  such 
ardour  and  purity,  that  he  did  not  liesitate  to  take  the  required 
oath.  A  famt  smile  played  on  the  lips  of  the  Abbe  Fontanon, 
the  spiritual  director  of  the  household.  Mademoiselle  Bon- 
tems, by  a  slight  movement  of  the  head,  promised  her  friend 
not  to  abuse  the  liberty  accorded.  As  for  the  old  count,  he 
simply  hummed  in  an  undertone,  the  air,  "  Va-fem  voir  s'tVs 
zu'enfient." 

After  some  days  spent  over  the  retoiirs  de  noces,  which  figure 
so  conspicuously  in  provincial  life,  Granville  and  his  wife 
returned  to  Paris.  There  the  young  advocate  received  the 
nomination  to  the  post  of  advocate  general  to  the  Imperial 
Court  of  the  Seine.  In  looking  about  for  a  dwelling,  Ange- 
liquc,  using  the  influence  which  all  women  possess  during  the 
honeymoon,  prevailed  upon  Granville  to  take  a  spacious  setof 
rooms  on  tlic  ground  floor  of  an  hotel  situated  at  the  corner  of 
the  Vieille-Rue-du-Temple  and  the  Rue  Neuve  Saint-Frangois. 
Now  the  principal  motive  of  this  choice  was  that  the  house  was 
close  to  the  Rue  d'Orleans,  in  which  th'-re  was  a  church,  and 
within  a  short  distance  of  a  little  chapel  in  the  Rue  Saint-Louis. 

"  It  is  the  duty  of  a  good  housekeeper  to  lay  in  a  good  stock 
of  provisions,"  was  her  husband's  laughing  remark.     Angdiique, 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  803 

with  great  justice,  pointed  out  to  him  that  the  district  of  the 
Marais  lies  near  to  the  Palais  de  Justice,  and  that  the  magis- 
trates whom  they  had  just  been  visiting,  lived  in  that  district. 
Attached  to  the  house  there  was  a  large  garden  which  to  a 
young  couple  enhanced  the  value  of  the  position  ;  their  child- 
ren, if  heaven  should  send  them  any,  might  run  about  in  the 
garden.  The  court  of  the  hotel  was  spacious,  aad  the  stabling 
was  good.  The  advocate-general  wanted  to  live  in  an  hotel  in 
the  Chauss^ed'Antin,  where  all  is  fresh  and  lively,  where  the 
fashions  are  to  be  seen  in  all  their  novelty,  and  whence  the 
boulevards,  strewn  wiih  people  of  fashion,  the  theatres,  and 
places  of  amusement,  are  more  easily  accessible.  But  he  was 
forced  to  give  way  to  the  coaxing  of  the  young  wife,  who  was 
asking  her  first  favor ;  and  thus,  in  order  to  please  her,  he 
buried  himself  in  the  Marais.  As  Granville's  duties  were  new 
to  him,  he  was  obliged  to  devote  a  very  large  amount  of  time  to 
them ;  so  his  first  care  was  to  furnish  a  study,  and  set  up  his 
library.  He  hastened  to  install  himself  in  a  room  that  was 
soon  encumbered  with  briefs,  and  left  his  young  wife  to  super- 
vise the  fitting  up  of  the  other  apartments.  He  was  all  the 
more  ready  to  involve  Angelique  in  the  bustle  of  making  the 
first  household  purchases  which  give  rise  to  so  many  pleasures 
and  memories,  in  the  hearts  of  young  wives,  because  he  was 
ashamed  of  paying  his  bride  less  attention  than  the  laws  of  the 
honeymoon  ordain.  As  soon  as  he  was  familiarized  wth  his 
work,  the  advocate-general  allowed  his  wife  to  drag  him  from 
his  study,  and  show  him  the  general  effect  of  the  furnishing 
and  decoration,  which  he  had  yet  as  seen  only  in  detail.  If  there 
be  any  truth  in  the  adage,  that  one  may  form  an  estimate  of 
a  woman's  character  from  the  appearance  of  her  house-door, 
her  rooms  should  be  a  still  more  faithful  index  to  her  mind. 
Whether  or  not,  Angelique  had  inscribed  her  own  character 
upon  a  world  of  things,  of  which  she  had  had  the  ordering,  the 
young  magistrate  was  surprised  at  the  stiffness  and  chill 
solemnity-  which  reigned  throughout  his  rooms ;  he  sought  in 


304  BALZAC. 

vain  for  grace  and  harmony ;  there  was  nothing  to  rejoice  the 
sight.  The  spirit  of  rectitude  and  politeness  wliich  was  stamp- 
ed upon  the  parlor  at  Bayeux,  was  here  repeated.  It  breathed 
from  the  large  round  hollow  ceiling,  adorned  with  those  arabes- 
ques, whose  long  curling  lines  are  in  such  execrable  taste.  In 
his  desire  to  exculpate  his  wife,  the  young  man  retraced  his 
steps  and  renewed  his  examination  of  the  long  and  lofty  ante- 
room, which  served  as  a  vestibule  to  the  other  rooms.  The 
color  which  his  wife  had  ordered  the  painter  to  lay  upon  the 
wainscoat,  was  too  gloomy,  and  the  dark  green  velvet  with 
which  the  seats  were  covered,  added  to  the  sombre  aspect  of 
this  apartment,  which,  however  unimportant,  always  gives  an 
idea  of  the  whole  house,  just  as  a  man's  intellect  is  judged  of 
from  his  opening  phrases.  An  anteroom  is  a  kind  of  preface, 
which  should  announce  everything,  but  promise  nothing.  The 
young  magistrate  asked  himself  whether  it  was  possible  that  his 
wife  would  have  selected  the  lamp  in  the  antique  case,  which 
hung  in  the  centre  of  that  bare  hall,  with  its  pavements  of  black 
and  white  marble,  and  its  paper  representing  a  stone  wall,  with 
here  and  there  a  line  of  green  moss.  A  highly  ornamented  but 
old-fashioned  barometer  hung  in  the  middle  of  one  of  the  walls, 
as  if  to  make  its  nakedness  more  conspicuous.  When  all  this 
met  his  eye,  the  young  man  looked  at  his  wife,  and  saw  that 
she  was  so  well  satisfied  with  the  red  fringe  of  the  muslin  cur- 
tains, with  the  barometer,  and  the  decorous  statue  which 
adorned  the  large  gothic  stove,  that  he  lacked  the  barbarous 
courage  to  destroy  such  strong  illusions.  Instead  of  condemn- 
ing his  wife,  he  condemned  himself;  he  accused  himself  of 
having  neglected  his  first  duty,  the  duty  which  summoned  him 
to  guide  the  first  steps  in  Paris,  of  a  young  girl  brought  up  at 
Bayeux,  From  this  specimen,  every  one  may  judge  of  the 
manner  in  which  the  other  rooms  were  decorated.  What  could 
be  expected  from  a  young  woman  who  took  fright  at  the  naked 
legs  of  a  caryatid,  who  keenly  repulsjd  a  candelabrum,  a  candle- 
stick, or  a  piece  of  furniture,  if  it  were  ornamented  with  an 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  805 

Egyptian  torso  in  a  state  of  nudity  ?  At  that  epoch  the  school 
of  the  painter  David,  was  just  reaching  the  apogee  of  its  glor)'. 
Everything  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  France  felt 
the  influence  of  the  accuracy  of  his  drawing,  and  of  his  love 
for  the  antique,  which  made  his  painting  a  sort  of  colored 
sculpture.  Not  one  of  the  creations  of  the  luxury  of  the  em- 
pire gained  the  rights  of  citizenship  with  Madame  de  Granville, 
The  vast  square  salon  of  her  dwelling  retained  the  faded  white 
and  gold  with  which  it  was  decorated  in  the  days  of  Louis- 
Quinze,  the  lozenge-shaped  gratings  and  intolerable  festoons 
due  to  the  sterile  fecundity  of  the  painters  of  that  period.  If 
there  had  only  been  harmony  of  detail,  if  modern  mahogany 
had  assumed  the  tortured  shapes  brought  into  fashion  by  the 
corrupt  taste  of  Boucher,  Angeiique's  home  would  simply  have 
afforded  the  amusing  contrast  of  a  pair  of  young  folks  living  in 
the  nineteenth  century,  as  if  they  had  belonged  to  the  eigh- 
teenth ;  but  a  crowd  of  things  in  it,  produced  ridiculous 
antitheses.  Consoles,  time  pieces,  and  flambeaux,  all  were  re- 
dolent of  those  warlike  attributes  which  imperial  victories 
rendered  so  dear  to  Paris.  The  Greek  helmets,  the  Roman, 
cross-swords,  and  the  bucklers,  due  to  military  enthusiasm,, 
which  at  that  period  were  employed  in  the  decoration  of  the 
most  peaceful  articles  of  furniture,  did  not  exactly  harmonize 
with  the  delicate  and  labyrinthine  arabesques,  in  which  Ma- 
dame de  Pompadour  delighted.  Sanctimoniousness  induces  a; 
certain  wearisome  humility,  which  by  no  means  excludes  pride.. 
Either  through  modesty  or  from  inclination,  Madame  de  Gran- 
ville seemed  to  have  a  horror  of  soft,  light  colors ;  perhaps, 
also  she  thought  that  purple  and  brown  were  suitable  to  the 
dignity  of  a  magistrate.  But  how  should  a  young  girl,  accus- 
tomed to  a  life  of  austerity,  have  had  any  notion  of  those 
voluptuous  couches  which  inspire  naughty  ideas,  those  elegant, 
perfidious  boudoirs,  in  which  sin  is  rough- sketched  }  The  poor 
magistrate  was  quite  disheartened.  The  tone  of  approbation 
in  which  he  endorsed  the  praises  which  his  wife  oestowed  upo; 

T 


300  EALZAC. 

herself,  showed  her  that  he  was  not  pleased  with  anything. 
ThereuiDon  she  exhibited  so  much  chagrin  that  the  loving  Gran- 
ville took  her  profound  regret  to  be  a  proof  of  love,  not  a 
manifestation  of  wounded  self-esteem.  How  could  a  young 
girl,  suddenly  snatched  av/ay  from  commonplace  country  no- 
tions, and  ignorant  of  the  vanities  and  refinement  of  Parisian 
life,  do  better  ?  The  magistrate  preferred  to  believe  that  his 
wife  had  been  controlled  in  her  choice  by  the  contractor,  rather 
than  admit  the  truth  ;  if  he  had  not  been  so  much  in  love,  he 
would  have  felt  that  the  shopkeepers,  so  quick  in  detecting  the 
wishes  of  their  customers,  so  far  from  controlling  his  wife's 
taste,  had  thanked  heaven  for  sending  them  a  tasteless  little 
Puritan,  to  help  them  to  get  rid  of  their  old-fashioned  stock. 
He  therefore  began  to  console  his  pretty  Normandy  bride, 

**  Happiness,  my  dear  Angelique,  does  not  depend  on  the 
greater  or  less  elegance  of  a  piece  of  furniture,  but  on  the 
gentleness,  complaisance,  and  affection  of  a  wife." 

"  But  it  is  my  duty  to  love  you,  and  never  will  the  accom- 
plishment of  a  duty  give  me  so  much  pleasure,"  said  Angdlique 
f;ently.  Nature  has  endowed  women  with  so  great  a  desire  to 
])lease  and  to  be  loved,  that  even  in  the  case  of  a  young 
Puritan,  ideas  about  a  future  state  and  eternal  salvation  must 
give  way  to  the  first  delights  of  matrimony.  Accordingly, 
from  the  month  of  April,  when  their  marriage  took  place, 
until  the  beginning  of  winter,  the  husband  and  wife  lived 
together  in  perfect  harmony.  Love  and  labor  have  the  merit 
of  rendering  a  man  tolerably  indifferent  to  mere  externals. 
Granville,  being  obliged  to  pass  half  the  day  at  the  Palais  de 
Justice,  and  to  debate  weighty  matters  involving  the  lives  and 
the  fortunes  of  men,  was  less  able  than  another  to  notice  certain 
•home  affairs.  If  on  Friday  there  was  nothing  but  fish  for 
dinner,  and  he  asked  in  vain  for  a  dish  of  meat,  his  wife, 
•whom  the  Gospel  prohibited  from  lying,  nevertheless  contrived 
■I'V  means  of  little  tricks  permitted  in  the  interests  of  religion, 
io  ascribe  to  her  own  heedlessness  or  the  emptiness  oi  the 


A  DOUBLE   FAMILY.  307 

iiiarkets  what  was  really  premeditated ;  she  would  often  justify 
tierself  at  the  expense  of  the  cook,  and  sometimes  went  so  far 
as  to  scold  him.  At  that  epoch,  young  magistrates  did  not,  as 
in  these  times,  observe  fast  days,  ember  week,  and  the  eves  of 
•saints'  days ;  so  that  Granville  did  not  at  first  notice  the  peri- 
odicity of  the  Lenten  dinners;  especially  as  his  wife,  with  per- 
fidious care  rendered  them  very  appetizing  by  means  of  teal, 
imoor-hens,  patties,  or  fish,  whose  amphibious  flesh  or  the  sea- 
■soning  deceived  the  taste.  Thus  the  magistrate,  without  being 
aware  of  it  lived  very  orthodoxly,  and  secured  his  salvation 
incognito.  On  weekdays  he  did  not  know  whether  his  wife 
Avent  to  mass  or  not,  but  on  Sundays,  with  very  natural  com- 
plaisance, he  accompanied  her  to  church  to  make  up,  as  it 
■were,  for  her  occasionally  sacrificing  vespers  on  his  account. 
Thus  he  could  not  at  first  discover  the  rigor  of  his  wife's  reli- 
gious practices.  Places  of  amusement  being  insupportable  in 
summer-time  on  account  of  the  heat,  Granville  was  even  de- 
prived of  the  pretext  of  a  successful  hit  for  taking  his  wife  to 
the  play ;  so  that  the  serious  question  of  the  theatre  was  not 
raised.  In  short,  during  the  first  days  of  a  marriage  to  which 
the  beauty  of  the  young  girl  has  formed  the  principal  induce- 
ment, 'tis  very  difficult  for  a  man  to  be  exacting  in  the  matter 
of  amusements.  Youth  is  gluttonous  rather  than  dainty,  and 
moreover  mere  possession  is  a  charm.  How  can  a  man  recog- 
nize coldness,  dignity,  or  reserve  on  the  part  of  a  woman  when 
he  endows  her  with  his  own  enthusiasm,  when  the  flame  which 
inspires  him  is  reflected  in  her  ?  A  man  must  reach  a  certain 
stage  of  conjugal  tranquility  in  order  to  discern  that  a  Puritan 
waits  for  love  with  folded  arms. 

Granville,  therefore,  believed  himself  happy  enough,  until 
the  occurrence  of  a  fatal  event,  which  arose  to  influence  his 
married  life.  In  the  month  of  November,  1808,  the  canon  of 
Bayeux  Cathedral,  who  formerly  directed  the  consciences  of 
Madame  Bontems  and  her  daughter,  came  to  Paris,  attracted 
thither  bv  an  ambition  to  obtain  a  cure  of  souls  in  the  capital, 


303  BALZAC. 

a  post  which  he  probably  coveted  as  a  stepping-stone  to  a 
bishopric.  On  resuming  his  old  dominion  over  his  sheep,  he 
shuddered  to  find  her  already  so  much  changed  by  the  air  of 
Paris,  and  longed  to  bring  her  back  into  his  frigid  fold.  The 
ex-canon,  a  man  of  about  thirty-eight,  introduced  into  the 
midrt  of  the  Parisian  clergy — a  body  so  tolerent  and  enlight- 
ened— the  harsh  provincial  asceticism  and  inflexible  bigotry 
whose  multiplied  exigencies  ore  so  many  bonds  for  timorous 
souls.  Madatne  de  Granville  repented  and  returned  to  her 
Jansenism.  It  would  be  tedious  to  recount  with  exactitude  the 
incidents  which  gradually  and  imperceptibly  introduced  unhap- 
piness  into  the  bosom  of  this  household ;  it  will  perhaps  be 
sufTicient  to  relate  the  principle  facts,  without  attempting  to- 
arrange  them  in  strict  chronological  order.  The  first  misun- 
derstanding, however,  between  this  young  couple,  was  striking 
enough.  Madame  Granville  did  not  refuse  to  accompany  her 
husband  to  grave  re-unions,  dinnei'-parties,  concerts,  or  to  the 
assemblies  of  magistrates,  placed  above  her  husband  in  the 
judicial  hierarchy ;  but  she  contrived  for  some  time  to  feign  a 
headache  whenever  it  was  a  question  of  going  to  a  ball.  One 
day  Granville,  weary  of  these  pretended  illnesses,  destroyed  the 
note  of  invitation  to  a  ball  at  the  house  of  one  of  the  Council- 
lors of  State,  and  surprising  his  wife  with  a  verbal  invitation  one 
evening  when  there  was  not  the  least  suspicion  of  ill-health,  he 
produced  her  in  the  midst  of  a  wonderful  fete. 

The  dejected  look  which  his  wife  wore  on  their  return  home 
offended  Granville,  and  he  said  to  her,  "  My  dear,  your  posi- 
tion as  a  wife,  the  rank  which  you  hold  in  the  world,  and  the 
fortune  which  you  enjoy,  impose  upon  you  certain  obligations, 
which  no  divine  law  can  abrogate.  Are  you  not  the  glory  of 
your  husband  ?  You  ought  therefore  to  go  with  me  to  balls, 
and  appear  there  in  proper  trim." 

"  Why,  my  friend,  what  was  there  so  much  amiss  about  my 
toilette  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  speaking  of  your  dress,  but  of  your  manner,  n.y 


A.  DOUBLE   FAMILY.  S09 

dear.  When  a  j'oung  man  comes  up  and  addresses  you,  you 
grow  so  serious  that  a  wag  might  conclude  your  virtue  extremely 
fragile.  You  seem  to  fear  that  a  smile  might  compromise  you. 
You  really  looked  this  evening,  as  if  you  were  invoking  God's 
forgiveness  for  the  sins  that  were  being  committed  all  round 
you.  The  world,  my  dear  angel,  is  not  a  convent.  But  since 
you  have  mentioned  your  toilette,  I  will  confess  to  you  that 
it  is  also  your  duty  to  follow  the  fashions  and  customs  of  the 
world." 

"  Would  you  then  have  me  display  my  figure  like  those  brazen- 
faced women  who  wear  such  low  dresses  that  unchaste  eyes  can 
see  their  naked  shoulders  ?     .     .     ." 

"  There  is  a  difference,  my  dear,"  said  the  substitute, 
■"  between  exposing  the  whole  breast,  and  dressing  the  upper 
part  of  the  body  gracefully ;  you  have  a  triple  row  of  tulle- 
ruches  which  envelope  5'ou  from  neck  to  chin.  It  looks  as  if 
3  ou  had  besought  your  dressmaker  to  deprive  your  shoulders 
cind  the  outlines  of  your  bosom,  of  all  grace,  as  earnestly  as  a 
coquette  entreats  hers  so  to  make  her  dresses  as  to  bring  out 
all  the  secrets  of  her  figure.  Your  bosom  is  buried  beneath 
folds  so  numerous,  that  everybody  was  laughing  at  your  affec- 
tation of  coyness.  I  should  cause  you  pain  were  I  to  repeat 
the  absurd  things  that  were  said  about  you." 

"  Those  who  are  pleased  wiih  such  obscenities  will  not 
have  to  bear  the  burthen  of  our  sins,"  answered  the  young  wife 
drily. 

"  You  didn't  dance,  did  you  ?  "  asked  Granville. 
"  I  will  never  dance,"  she  replied. 

"  What  if  I  tell  you  that  5'ou  ought  to  dance,"  resumed  the 
magistrate  sharply  ;  "  yes,  you  ought  to  follow  the  fashion,  uut 
(lowers  in  your  hair,  and  wear  diamonds.  Consider,  my  dear, 
that  rich  people,  and  we  are  rich,  are  obliged  to  support  luxury 
in  the  state.  Is  it  not  better  to  encourage  manufactures  than 
to  scatter  one's  money  about  m  aimsgivmg,  mrough  the  nands 
of  the  clergy.'-" 


310  BALZAC. 

"  You  speak  ae  a  statesman,"  said  Ang^iqiie. 

"  And  you  as  a  priest,"  retorted  Granville  sharply. 

The  discussion  grew  very  bitter.  Madame  Granville  in  her 
replies,  which  were  always  gentle,  and  uttered  in  a  voice  that 
was  as  clear  as  a  church-bell,  exhibited  an  obstinacy  that 
betrayed  the  influence  of  the  priest.  When  in  claiming  the 
rights  which  Granville's  promise  had  given  her,  she  said  that 
her  confessor  had  specially  forbidden  her  to  go  to  balls,  the 
magistrate  tried  to  prove  to  her  that  the  priest  exceeded  the 
requirements  of  the  Church.  This  odious  theological  dispute 
was  renewed  with  much  more  violence  and  acrimony  on  both 
sides,  when  Granville  wanted  to  take  his  wife  to  the  play.  At 
length  the  magistrate,  with  the  sole  object  of  overcoming  the 
pernicious  influence  exercised  over  his  wife,  by  the  ex-canon,, 
placed  the  quarrel  on  such  a  footing  that  Madame  de  Granville 
accepted  her  husband's  challenge,  to  write  to  the  Court  of 
Rome  for  information  as  to  whether  a  woman  could,  without 
imperilling  her  mortal  soul,  wear  low  dresses,  and  go  to  balls- 
and  theatres,  to  please  her  husband.  The  response  of  the 
venerable  Pius  VII.  was  not  long  delayed.  It  boldly  con- 
demned the  resistance  of  the  wife,  and  censured  the  confessor. 
The  letter,  which  was  a  regular  catechism  of  matrimony^ 
seemed,  as  it  were,  dictated  by  the  gentle  voice  of  F^nelon, 
breathing  throughout  his  elegance  and  mildness.  "  A  woman 
is  well  placed  wherever  she  goes  with  her  husband."  "  If  she 
commits  sin  by  his  order,  she  will  not  one  day  have  to  answer 
for  it." 

These  two  passages  of  the  pope's  homily  led  Madame  de 
Granville  and  her  confessor  to  accuse  the  holy  father  of  irreli- 
gion.  But  before  the  brief  arrived,  the  substitute  noticed  the 
strict  observance  of  7iiaigre  days  imposed  upon  him  by  his- 
wife,  and  ordered  his  servants  to  serve  meat  throughout  the 
year.  Notwithstanding  the  displeasure  which  this  order  caused 
his  wife,  Granville,  who  cared  little  or  nothing  for  feasts  or 
fasts,  adhered  to  it  with  manly  firmness. 


A  DOUBLE  FAJVIILY.  311 

The  weakest  creature  that  can  think,  is  wounded  in  its  ten- 
derest  point  when  performing  at  the  instigation  of  a  will  other 
than  its  own,  something  which  it  would  have  done  of  its  own 
accord.  Of  all  tyrannies  that  is  the  most  odious  which  per- 
petually robs  the  heart  of  its  thoughts  and  actions.  It  is  abdi- 
cation without  having  reigned.  The  word  which  it  would  have 
been  most  sweet  to  utter,  the  sentiment  which  it  would  have 
been  most  sweet  to  express,  when  we  believe  them  to  be 
comm'^nded,  die  upon  the  lips.  The  young  magistrate  soon 
gave  up  receiving  his  friends,  and  ceased  to  entertain  them. 
His  house  seemed  to  be  in  mourning.  A  house  whose  mis- 
tress is  a  Puritan  has  an  aspect  peculiar  to  itself.  The  servants, 
who  are  constantly  subjected  to  the  surveillance  of  the  wife, 
are  chosen  from  among  the  class  of  so-called  pious  persons 
who  have  faces  which  are  sui genrris.  Just  as  the  most  jovial 
lad  who  joins  the  police  force  will  acquire  the  look  of  a  police- 
man ;  even  so,  people  who  adopt  Puritan  habits  contract  a 
uniform  cast  of  countenance.  The  habit  of  looking  upon  the 
ground,  of  maintaining  an  attitude  of  compunction^  invest 
them  with  a  livery  of  hypocrisy,  which  rogues  can  don  with 
marvellous  facility.  Then  again,  the  Puritans  form  a  kind  of 
republic,  they  all  know  each  other;  the  servants  whom  they 
recommend  to  one  another  form  a  distinct  race,  which  is  care- 
fully preserved  by  them  ;  just  as  lovers  of  horse-flesh  only  admit 
to  their  stable,  horses  whose  pedigrees  are  beyond  dispute. 
The  more  those  who  are  termed  irreligious  examine  the  house 
of  a  Puritan,  the  more  clearly  do  they  perceive  that  everything 
which  it  contains  is  stamped  with  a  certain  indefinable  want  of 
grace ;  there  is  the  same  appearance  of  avarice  and  mystery 
that  stamps  the  house  of  the  usurer,  the  same  incense-perfumed 
dampness  that  chills  the  air  of  the  chapel.  This  sordid  regu- 
larity, this  poverty  of  ideas  everywhere  portrayed,  can  be 
e3q)ressed  by  one  word  only — bigotty.  In  these  sinister  and 
unbending  households  bigotry  is  imprinted  upon  the  furniture, 
the  engravings,  the  pictures  ;  the  talk  is  bigoted,  the  silence  is 


312  BALZIC. 

bigoted,  the  faces  are  bigoted.  The  transformation  of  rnen 
and  things  through  bigotry  is  an  inexplicable  mystery,  but  the 
fact  is  there.  Every  one  may  have  noticed  that  bigots  do  not 
walk,  do  not  sit  down,  do  not  talk  as  men  of  the  world  walk, 
sit  down,  and  talk.  In  the  house  of  the  bigot  there  is  con- 
straint; people  do  not  laugh ;  there  is  stiffness  and  formality 
in  everything,  from  the  cap  of  the  mistress  of  the  house,  to  her 
pincushion  ;  there  are  no  frank  looks ;  people  move  about 
like  ghosts ;  the  lady  of  the  house  seems  to  be  seated  on  a 
throne  of  ice. 

One  morning  poor  Granville  remarked  with  sadness  and  with 
sorrow,  all  the  symptoms  of  bigotry  in  his  house.  There  are 
in  the  world  certain  circles  where  the  same  effects  exist,  though 
they  are  not  produced  by  the  same  causes.  Boredom  traces 
around  their  miserable  haunts,  a  wall  of  brass,  which  includes 
all  the  horrors  of  the  desert,  and  the  infinity  of  emptiness. 
Under  such  conditions  a  household  is  not  a  tomb ;  it  is  worse, 
it  is  a  convent.  Placed  in  the  centre  of  this  glacial  sphere,  the 
magistrate  considered  his  wife  dispassionately  ;  he  observed, 
with  acute  pain,  the  narrow  ideas  betrayed  by  the  manner  in 
which  the  hair  was  planted  on  the  low  and  somewhat  sunken 
brow ;  he  noticed  in  the  too  perfect  regularity  of  the  features  an 
immobility  and  stiffness  which  soon  rendered  the  affected 
gentleness  by  which  he  had  been  seduced,  quite  odious  to  him. 
He  felt  that  some  day,  on  the  arrival  of  some  misfortune,  those 
thin  lips  might  say  to  him,  "  It  is  for  your  good,  my  friend." 
The  face  of  Madame  Granville  assumed  a  pallid  hue  and  serious 
expression  fatal  to  the  cheerfulness  of  those  who  came  near 
her.  Was  it  to  the  ascetic  habits  of  a  puritanism  which  is  no 
more  piety  than  avarice  is  economy,  that  this  change  was  due  ? 
Was  it  the  result  of  the  sterility  natural  to  the  bigoted  mind  ? 
It  would  be  difficult  to  determine.  Beauty  without  expression 
is  perhaps  an  imposture. 

The  imperturbable  smile  which  the  young  woman  wore  upon 
her  countenance  when  she  looked  at  Granville  seemed  with 


A   DOUBLE  FAMII^y,  SI 3 

iier  to  be  a  Jesuitical  formula  of  happiness,  whereby  she  be- 
lieved that  she  satisfied  all  the  exigencies  of  marriage ;  her 
■charity  inflicted  wounds,  her  passionless  beauty  seemed  a  mon- 
strosity to  those  who  knew  her,  and  the  gentlest  of  her  words 
■caused  irritation  !  She  obeyed  not  feeling,  but  duty.  There 
are  some  female  defects  which  may  yield  to  the  stern  lessons 
of  experience,  or  to  the  teaching  of  a  husband ;  but  nothing^ 
can  overcome  the  tyranny  of  false  ideas  of  religion.  An  eter- 
nity of  happiness  to  be  won,  weighed  in  the  balance  against  a 
worldly  pleasure,  triumphs  over  everything,  and  makes  every- 
thing endurable.  Is  not  this  the  very  apotheosis  of  egotism, 
the  ego  beyond  the  tomb?  The  pope,  accordingly,  was  con- 
demned at  the  tribunal  of  the  infallible  canon  and  the  young 
Puritan.  Not  to  be  in  the  wrong  is  one  of  those  feelings  which 
supplant  all  other  feelings  in  these  despotic  minds.  For  a 
long  time  past  there  had  been  a  secret  conflict  between  the 
ideas  of  the  husband  and  those  of  the  wife,  and  the  young 
magistrate  soon  grew  weary  of  a  strife  which  was  destined  to 
have  no  end.  Where  is  the  man,  where  is  the  despotism, 
which  can  overcome  a  face  of  affectionate  hypocrisy  and  cate- 
gorical remonstrances  opposed  to  the  slightest  wishes  ?  How 
can  one  deal  with  a  woman  who  makes  use  of  one's  passion  as 
a  shield  for  her  own  insensibility,  who  seems  resolved  to  remain 
inildly  inexorable,  joyfully  prepares  herself  to  play  the  part  of 
a  victim,  and  looks  upon  her  husband  as  an  instrument  in  the 
hands  of  God,  as  a  scourge  whereby  to  escape  the  scourges  of 
purgatory?  What  colors  can  one  employ  to  give  an  idea  of 
those  women  who,  by  carrying  beyond  all  bounds  the  sweetest 
precepts  of  that  religion  which  St.  John  summed  up  in  the 
words  "  Love  one  another,"  make  virtue  itself  detestable  ? 

Was  there  in  some  milliner's  shop  a  particular  hat  doomed 
to  hang  on  hand  or  to  be  despatched  to  the  Isles,  Granville 
was  sure  to  see  his  wife  adorned  with  it.  Was  there  manufac- 
tured some  material  of  peculiarly  untasteful  design,  she  muffled 
herself  up  in  it.    These  poor  Puritans  are  terrible  in  their  style 


314  BALZAC. 

of  dress.    Want  of  taste  is  a  defect  inseparable  from  mistaken 
piety. 

Thus,  then,  in  that  intimate  home-life  to  which  the  most 
perfect  freedom  is  essential,  Granville  found  himself  alone ;  he 
went  into  society  alone,  he  went  to  balls  and  theatres  alone. 
In  his  own  home,  there  was  nothing  sympathetic  about  him.. 
A  large  crucifix,  placed  between  his  wife's  bed  and  his  own, 
stood  there  as  a  symbol  of  his  destiny ;  for  does  it  not  repre- 
sent a  divinity  put  to  death,  a  man-God  Villed  in  all  the  beauty 
of  life  and  youth.  The  ivory  of  that  cross  was  not  so  cold  as: 
Angdique,  crucifying  her  husband  in  the  name  of  virtue.  It 
was  between  those  two  beds  that  unhappiness  was  born.  This 
young  wife  could  see  nothing  but  duty  in  the  pleasures  of 
marriage.  There,  between  these  two  beds,  on  a  certain  Ash 
Wednesday,  arose  the  keeping  of  the  fast — a  pale  and  livid 
spectre,  who,  in  curt  tones,  ordained  a  complete  Lent ;  nor  did 
Granville  on  this  occasion  deem  it  fitting  to  write  to  the  Pope, 
to  obtain  the  opinion  of  the  Consistory  as  to  the  mode  of 
observing  Lent,  Ember  Week,  and  the  vigils  of  the  F-stivals. 
The  unhappiness  of  the  young  magistrate  was  complete ;  he 
could  not  even  complain ;  he  had  a  pretty,  virtuous  young 
wife,  devoted  to  her  duties,  in  fact,  the  model  of  every  virtue. 
Every  year  she  presented  him  with  a  child,  which  she  herself 
suckled,  and  educated  in  the  best  principles.  The  charitable 
Ang^lique  was  promoted  to  the  rank  of  angel.  The  old  women , 
who  composed  the  society  in  the  midst  of  which  she  lived  (for 
at  that  epoch  young  women  had  not  yet  taken  it  into  their  heads 
to  launch  out  into  extreme  Puritanism,  as  a  matter  of  fashion), 
all  admired  the  devotion  of  Madame  de  Granville,  and  regard- 
ed her,  if  not  as  a  virgin,  at  least  as  a  martyr.  They  blamed, 
not  the  scruples  of  the  wife,  but  the  procreative  barbarity  of 
the  husband.  Granville,  meanwhile,  overwhelmed  with  work, 
cut  off  from  pleasure,  and  weary  of  the  haunts  of  society,  in 
which  he  wandered  solitary,  fell  imperceptibly,  as  he  approached 
thirly-two,  into  the  most  frightful  atrophy.     Life  was  hateful  to 


A  DOUBLE  FAinLY.  315 

him.  Having  too  keen  a  sense  of  the  obh'gations  imposed 
upon  him  by  his  station,  to  set  the  example  of  an  irregular  Hfe,  he 
tried  to  relieve  his  mind  by  labor,  and  therefore  engaged  in  a 
great  work  upon  the  law.  But  he  did  not  long  enjoy  that 
monastic  tranquility  on  which  he  reckoned.  When  the  celes- 
tial Angdlique  saw  that  he  forsook  the  gaieties  of  the  worlds 
and  took  with  a  kind  of  regularity  to  working  at  home,  she 
essayed  to  make  a  convert  of  him.  She  was  really  grieved  to- 
know  that  her  husband's  principles  were  barely  Christian ;  she 
sometimes  wept,  when  she  reflected  that,  if  her  husband  should 
die,  he  would  perish  in  final  impenitence,  and  that  she  could 
not  hope  to  snatch  him  from  the  everlasting  flames  of  hell. 
Granville,  therefore,  became  the  target  of  those  petty  notions^ 
those  empty  arguments  and  narrow  thoughts  whereby  his  wife, 
who  fancied  she  had  gained  one  victory  over  him,  endeavored 
to  obtain  another,  by  bringing  him  within  the  pale  of  the 
Church.  That  was  the  final  blow.  What  could  be  more  dis- 
tressing than  those  silent  contests,  in  which  the  obstinacy  of 
the  Puritan  tried  to  subdue  the  dialectics  of  the  magistrate  ?• 
What  more  fearful  to  describe,  than  iliose  acrimonious  cavils 
which,  to  impassioned  minds,  are  worse  than  the  point  of  the 
dagger  ? 

Granville  deserted  the  house,  in  which  ever}'thing  had  be- 
come insupportable  to  him  ;  his  children,  bowed  down  beneath 
their  mother's  frigid  tyranny,  did  not  venture  to  go  with  their 
father  to  the  play,  nor  could  Granville  procure  them  any  diver- 
sion, without  drawing  down  upon  them  the  chastisement  of 
their  terrible  mother.  This  man,  so  full  of  affection,  was 
forced  into  an  indifference,  into  an  egotismj  worse  than  deaths 
He,  however,  saved  his  sons  from  the  infernal  regions  of  home^ 
by  sending  them  to  school  while  quite  young,  and  keeping  the 
reins  of  management  in  his  own  hands.  He  rarely  interfered 
between  the  mother  and  her  daughters,  but  he  resolved  to 
procure  husbands  for  them,  so  soon  as  they  should  attain  a 
mrjrriageable  age.     Had  he  tried  to  assume  the  high  hand^ 


516  BALZAC. 

ihere  was  nothing  to  justify  him  ;  his  wife,  supported  by  a  for- 
midable phalanx  of  dowagers,  would  have  secured  his  condem- 
nation by  the  whole  earth.  Granville's  only  resource,  then, 
was  to  live  in  complete  isolation,  but,  bowed  as  he  was  beneath 
the  tyranny  of  misfortune,  he  was  disgusted  with  his  own 
features,  withered  by  misery,  and  worn  by  toil.  And  to  crown 
^11,  his  relations  and  intercourse  with  women  of  the  world 
taught  him  that  it  was  vain  to  expect  consolation  from  them. 
Of  such  consolation,  moreover,  he  was  afraid. 

The  didactic  history  of  this  melancholy  household  did  not, 
■during  the  fifteen  years  which  had  elapsed  between  1806  and 
1 82 1,  present  any  scene  worth  reporting.  Madame  de  Gran- 
ville, from  the  time  when  she  lost  her  husband's  heart,  remained 
•exactly  the  same  as  she  had  been  during  the  days  when  she 
called  herself  happy.  She  fasted  for  nine  days  at  a  time,  in 
■order  to  pray  to  God,  and  His  saints,  to  enlighten  her  as  to 
the  faults  which  displeased  her  husband,  and  to  teach  her  the 
means  of  bringing  back  the  wandering  sheep;  but  the  more 
fervently  she  prayed,  the  more  persistently  did  Granville  absent 
himself  from  home.  For  about  five  years  past,  the  advocate- 
:general,  who,  in  consequence  of  the  Restoration,  obtained  high 
functions  in  the  magistracy,  had  taken  refuge  in  the  entresol 
of  his  hotel,  to  avoid  living  with  the  Countess  of  Granville. 
Hence,  every  morning,  a  scene  took  place,  which,  if  we  are 
to  believe  the  scandal  of  society,  occurs  in  several 
households,  where  it  is  produced  by  certain  incompati- 
bilities of  temper,  by  maladies,  moral  or  physical,  or  by 
•caprices,  which  involve  many  an  union  in  the  misfortunes 
recorded  in  this  story.  At  about  eight  o'clock  in  the 
tnorning,  a  lady's  maid,  bearing  a  strong  resemblance  to  a 
nun,  came  to  ring  at  the  door  of  the  Comte  de  Granville's 
■rooms.  After  being  admitted  into  the  salon,  which  formed  an 
anteroom  to  the  magistrate's  study,  she  repeated  to  the  valet- 
xle-chambre,  always  in  the  same  tone  of  voice,  the  message  of 
4I1C  day  before.     "  Madame  wishes  to  know  whether  Monsieur 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  31 T 

le  Comte  has  passed  a  good  night,  and  whether  she  will  have 
the  pleasure  of  breakfasting  with  him." 

''  Monsieur,"  replied  the  valet,  after  having  gone  and  spokeif 
to  his  master,  "  Monsieur  presents  his  compliments  to  Madame- 
la  Comtesse,  and  begs  her  to  accept  his  excuses ;  important 
business  compels  him  to  go  to  the  Palais." 

An  instant  afterwards,  the  lady's  maid  again  presented  her- 
self, and  inquired,  on  madame's  behalf,  whether  she  would 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Monsieur  le  Comte,  before  his. 
departure. 

"  He  is  gone,"  replied  the  valet ;  whereas  it  would  often 
happen  that  his  cabriolet  was  still  in  the  court. 

This  ambassadorial  dialogue  became  a  quotidian  ceremony- 
Granville's  valet,  who  was  a  favorite  with  his  master,  and  had 
caused  more  than  one  quarrel  in  the  establishment,  on  account 
of  his  impiety,  and  the  laxity  of  his  morals,  would  sometimes, 
as  a  matter  of  form,  go  into  the  study,  where  liis  master  was 
not,  and  then  return,  to  make  the  customary  answer. 

The  afflicted  wife  always  watched  for  her  husband's  return,, 
and  stationed  herself  upon  (he  perron,  in  order  that  as  he  passed 
she  might  be  in  the  way,  and  meet  him  like  a  Remorse.  The 
teasing  triviality  which  is  the  essence  of  monastic  tyranny,  was 
at  the  root  of  that  of  Madame  de  Granville,  who,  though  only 
thirty-five,  looked  forty.  When,  constrained  by  decorum^ 
Granville  addressed  his  wife,  or  remained  at  home  to  dine, 
pleased  to  inflict  upon  him  her  pressence,  her  bitter-sweet 
discourse,  and  the  intolerable  boredom  of  her  society  of  bigots, 
she  would  seize  the  opportunity  of  putting  him  in  the  wrong; 
before  her  servants,  and  her  charitable  friends. 

Just  about  this  time,  the  presidency  of  one  of  the  Courts- 
Royal  was  offered  to  Granville,  who  was  at  this  time  in  high 
favor  with  the  king;  but  he  begged  the  minister  to  be  allowed 
to  remain  in  Paris.  This  refusal  of  promotion,  the  motives  of 
which  was  known  only  to  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals,  suggested  the 
oddest  conjectures  to  the  intimate  friends,  and  to  the  confessor 


S18  LAI^AC. 

of  the  countess.     Granville,  who  had  100,000  francs  a  year, 
"belonged  to  one  of  the  best  families  in  Normandy;  his  nomi- 
Tiation  to  the  presidency  was  a  step  towards  the  peerage.     Why 
this  lack  of  ambition  ?     Why  had  the  great  law-work  been  cast 
aside  ?     Whence  this  dissipation,  which,  for  nearly  six  years, 
had  made  him  a  stranger  in  his  own  house,  to  his  family,  to 
his  laboi  s,  to  all  that  ought  to  have  been  dear  to  him  ?     The 
countess's  confessor,  who,  for  the  obtaining  of  the  bishopric, 
■counted  as  much  upon  the  suffrages  of  the  houses  in  which  he 
reigned,  as  upon  the  services  he  rendered  to  a  religious  society, 
of  which  he  was  one  of  the  main  supporters,  was  disappointed  at 
•Granville's  refusal  and  endeavored  to  calumniate  him  by  various 
suppositions.     If  Monsieur  le  Comte  had  so  much  dislike  to 
the  provinces,  it  might  be  that  he  was  afraid  of  the  necessity 
lie  would  be  placed  in,  of  leading  a  regular  life.     Forced  to  set 
an  example  of  good  morals,  he  would  live  with  the  countess, 
from  whom  nothing  but  an  illicit  passion  could  divide  him. 
"Would  a  woman  so  pure  as  Madame  de  Grenville  ever  recog- 
nize the  irregularities  of  her  husband's  mode  of  life?     The 
worthy  friends  of  the  countess  turned  these  hypotheses  into 
truths;  and   unfortunately   they   were   not   mere  hypotheses. 
Madame  de  Granville  was  thunderstruck.     Not  knowing  any- 
thing of  the  morals  of  the  great  woild,  ignorant  of  love  and  its 
follies,  Angelique  was  so  far  from  thinking  that  marriage  could 
involve  any  incidents  different  from  those  which  had  alienated 
Granville's  heart,  that  she  believed   him  incapable  of  faults, 
which,  in  the  eyes  of  every  woman,  are  crimes.     When   the" 
count  had  withdrawn  his  attentions  from  her,  she  imagined 
that  the  calm,  which  he  seemed  to  enjoy  was  natural ;  and  now 
that,  after  she  had  given  him  all  the  affection  which  it  was  in 
her  power  to  bestow  on  any  man,  all  the  illusions — which  up  to 
that  moment,  she  had  cherished — were  wholly  dispelled  by  the 
conjectures  of  her  confessor,  she  undertook   her   husband's 
defence,  but  without  being  able  to  get  rid  of  the  suspicion? 
which  had  been  so  cunningly  instilled  into  her  mind.     Thesd 


A  DOUBLE   FAMILY.  319 

apprehensions  caused  such  ravage!  in  her  weak  head,  that  she 
fell  ill,  and  was  attacked  by  a  slow  fever.  These  events  took 
place  during  the  Lent  of  1822;  she  would  not  consent  to  abate 
lier  austerities,  and  so  gradually  sank  into  a  consumptive  con- 
dition, which  excited  grave  anxiety  for  her  life.  The  uncon- 
cerned air  of  Granville  killed  her.  Such  care  and  attention  as 
the  magistrate  did  bestow  upon  her>  resembled  that  which  a 
nephew  constrains  himself  to  show  to  a  rich  old  uncle. 
Although  the  countess  had  renounced  her  system  of  teasing 
and  remonstration,  and  endeavored  to  greet  her  husband  with 
gentle  words,  the  bitterness  of  the  Puritan  pierced  the  disguise, 
and  one  word  would  often  destroy  the  work  of  a  whole  week. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  month  of  May,  the  gentle  breath  of 
spring,  and  a  diet  more  nutritious  than  Lenten  fare,  restored 
some  strength  to  Madame  de  Grenville.  One  morning,  on  her 
return  from  mass,  she  went  into  her  little  garden,  and  sat  down 
upon  a  stone  bench,  where  the  caressing  warmth  of  the  sun 
reminded  her  of  the  first  days  of  her  married  life.  She  was 
taking  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  whole  of  her  life,  in  order  to 
discover  in  what  respect  she  had  failed  in  her  duties  as  a  wife 
and  a  mother,  when  the  Abbe  Fontanon  appeared  before 
her  in  a  state  of  agitation  difficult  to  be  described. 

"  Have  you  met  with  any  misfortune,  father  ?  "  she  inquired, 
with  daughterly  anxiety. 

"  Ah  !  "  replied  the  Normandy  priest,  "  I  would  that  all  the 
misfortunes  with  which  the  hand  of  God  afflicts  you,  were 
allotted  to  me ;  but  my  estimable  friend,  there  are  trials  to 
which  we  must  learn  to  submit." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  greater  chastisement  can  be  in  store  for 
me  than  that  with  which  Providence  overwhelms  me  by  em- 
ploying my  husband  as  the  instrument  of  its  wrath  ?  " 

"Prepare  yourself,  my  daughter,  for  chastisement  even 
greater  than  that  which  we  and  your  pious  friends  formerly 
supposed." 

"I  ought  then  to  thank  God,"  replied  the  countess,  "for 


320  BALZAC. 

deigning  to  employ  you  as  the  messenger  of  His  will;  thus 
placing,  as  He  ever  does,  the  treasures  of  His  mercy  beside 
the  scourge  of  His  wrath,  as  formerl}',  in  banishing  Hagar,  He 
opened  up  for  her  a  fountain  in  the  wilderness." 

"  He  has  proportioned  your  troubles  to  the  strength  of  your 
resignation  and  the  weight  of  your  sins." 

•'  Speak,  I  am  prepared  to  hear  all."  With  these  words  the 
countess  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven  and  added,  "  Speak, 
Monsieur  de  Fontanon." 

"  For  the  last  seven  years  monsieur  has  been  guilty  of  the 
sin  of  adultery  with  a  concubine  by  whom  he  has  had  two  chil- 
dren ;  and  he  has  squandered  on  that  adulterous  household 
more  than  500,000  francs,  which  should  of  a  right  belong  to 
his  legitimate  family." 

"  I  must  see  it  with  my  own  eyes,"  said  the  countess. 

"Take  care  how  you  do  that,"  said  the  abbe'.  "You  must 
forgive  and  wait  in  prayer,  my  daughter,  until  God  shall  en- 
lighten your  husband,  unless  you  resort  to  the  remedies  which 
human  laws  provide." 

The  long  conversation  which  thereupon  ensued  between  the 
Abbe  Fontanon  and  his  penitent  produced  a  violent  change  in: 
the  countess.  Having  dismissed  him,  she  appeared  before  her 
servants  with  a  face  that  had  almost  a  color  in  it.  She  ordered 
the  horses  to  be  put  into  the  carriage ;  countermanded  her 
order,  changed  her  mind  twenty  times  in  the  course  of  an 
hour;  but  at  length,  as  if  she  had  arrived  at  some  important 
resolution,  she  set  out  at  about  three  o'clock,  leaving  the- 
household  astonished  at  so  sudden  a  change. 

"  Is  your  master  coming  back  to  dinner  ?  "  she  inquired  cf 
the  valet-de-chambre,  to  whom  she  never  spoke. 

"No,  madame." 

"  Did  you  take  him  to  the  Palais  this  morning^" 

"  Yes,  madame." 

"  Is  not  to-day  Monday?" 

"  Yes,  madame." 


A  DOUBLE   FAMILY.  821 

"Then  there  is  business  at  the  Palais  on  Monday  now?" 

"  May  the  devil  take  you  !"  cried  the  valet  as  he  saw  his  mis- 
tress drive  off,  with  orders  to  the  coachman  to  drive  to  the  Rue 
Taitbout. 

Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille  was  weeping.  Roger  close  be- 
side her  had  one  of  her  hands  in  his.  He  was  silent  and 
gazed  first  at  little  Charles,  who,  not  understanding  his 
mother's  grief,  looked  on  without  speaking,  while  she  wept ; 
then  at  the  cradle  in  which  Eugenie  was  sleeping,  and  then  at 
the  face  of  Caroline,  whose  tears  resembled  an  April  shower. 

**  Well,  yes,  my  angel,"  said  Roger,  after  a  long  silence, 
"  that  is  the  great  secret,  I  am  married.  But  some  day,  I  hope, 
we  shall  make  one  family.  My  wife  has  been  in  a  desperate 
state  of  health  since  last  March.  I  do  not  wish  for  her  death, 
but  if  it  please  God  to  take  her  to  Him,  I  believe  she  will  be 
more  happy  in  Paradise,  than  in  the  midst  of  a  world  to  the 
pains  and  pleasures  of  which  she  is  equally  indifferent." 

"  How  I  hate  that  woman  !  How  could  she  render  you  un- 
happy ?  However,  it  is  to  your  unhappiness  that  I  owe  my 
felicity." 

And  her  tears  suddenly  dried. 

"  Caroline,  let  us  live  in  hope,"  said  Roger,  snatching  a  kiss.. 
"  Don't  be  frightened  at  what  this  abbe  may  have  said  to  you.. 
Although  my  wife's  confessor  is,  on  account  of  his  influence 
over  the  congregation,  a  formidable  man,  if  he  should  seek  to 
disturb  our  happiness  I  should  know  what  to  do.  ..." 

"  Why,  what  would  you  do  ?" 

"  We  would  go  to  Italy,  I  would  fly.  .  .  ." 

A  cry  from  the  neighboring  drawing-room  made  Roger 
shudder,  and  Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille  tremble.  They 
rushed  into  the  drawing-room,  and  there  found  the  countess  in 
a  swoon.  When  Madame  de  Granville  recovered  consciour<- 
ness,  she  sighed  profoundly  on  finding  herself  between  the 
count  and  her  rival,  whom  she  repulsed  with  an  involuntary 
gesture  full  of  contempt. 
U 


322  BALZAC. 

Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

"  You  are  in  your  own  house,  madame ;  I  beg  you  to  re- 
main," said  Granville,  taking  hold  of  Caroline's  arm. 

The  magistrate  raised  his  dying  wife,  carried  her  to  the  car- 
riage, and  took  a  seat  by  her  side. 

"  Who  has  induced  you  to  wish  for  my  death — to  desert 
me  ?"  asked  the  countess  in  a  feeble  voice,  while  she  looked 
at  her  husband  with  as  much  anger  as  pain.  "  Was  I  not 
young?  You  thought  me  beautiful.  What  have  you  to  reproach 
me  with?  Have  I  deceived  you?  Have  I  not  been  a  virtuous 
and  prudent  wife?  My  heart  has  treasured  no  image  but 
yours,  I  have  listened  to  no  other  voice  than  yours.  In  what 
duty  have  I  fallen  short  ?     What  have  I  refused  you  ?" 

" Happiness"  said  the  count  firmly. 

"You  know,  madame,  that  there  are  two  ways  of  serving 
God.  Certain  Christians  imagine  that  by  going  into  a  church 
at  fixed  hours  to  say  Paternosters,  hearing  mass  there  regularly, 
and  refraining  from  all  sin,  they  will  gain  heaven.  Such  per- 
sons, madame,  go  to  hell.  They  have  not  loved  God  for  His  own 
sake,  they  have  not  worshipped  Him  as  He  would  be  worshipped, 
they  have  made  no  sacrifice  for  Him ;  although  in  outward 
seeming  gentle,  they  are  harsh  to  their  neighbor;  they  see  the 
rule,  the  letter,  but  not  the  spirit.  That  is  how  you  have  acted 
towards  your  earthly  spouse,  you  have  sacrificed  my  happiness 
to  your  salvation  ;  when  I  approached  you  with  my  heart  full 
of  joy,  I  found  you  on  your  knees ;  when  you  should  have 
lightened  my  labors,  you  were  weeping;  you  have  entirely 
failed  to  minister  to  my  pleasures." 

"And  if  they  were  criminal,"  cried  the  countess  passionately, 
^'  was  I  bound  to  lose  my  soul  in  order  to  please  you  ?" 

"  That  would  have  been  a  sacrifice  which  another  more  lov- 
ing than  you  has  had  the  courage  to  make  for  me,"  said  Gran- 
ville coldly. 

"  O  my  God,"  cried  Madame  de  Granville,  weeping.  "  Thou 
hearest  him.     Was  he  worthy  of  the  prayers  I  uttered,  and  the 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  333 

austerities  I  underwent  in  order  to  redeem  his  fauHs  as  weJl  as 
my  own  ?     What  is  the  use  of  virtue  ?  " 

"To  gain  heaven,  my  dear.  One  cannot  be  at  the  same 
time, the  wife  of  a  man  and  of  Jesus  Christ ;  that  would  be 
bigamy.  Women  must  choose  between  a  husband  and  a  con- 
vent. You,  with  an  eye  to  the  future,  have  divested  your 
heart  of  all  love,  of  all  the  devotion  which  God  ordained  that 
you  should  have  for  me ;  and  for  the  world  you  have  no  feeling 
but  hatred." 

"  Have  I  not  loved  you,  then?" 

"  No,  madame." 

"What,  then,  is  love?"  asked  the  countess  involuntarily. 

"Love,  my  dear?"  replied  Granville,  with  a  kind  of  ironical 
surprise.  "  You  are  not  in  a  condition  to  understand  it.  The 
cold  sky  of  Normandy  cannot  be  that  of  Spain.  Doubtless  the 
question  of  climates  is  the  secret  of  our  unhappiness.  To  yield 
to  the  caprices  of  a  lover,  to  divine  chem,  to  find  pleasure  even 
in  pain,  to  sacrifice  for  his  sake  the  opinion  of  the  world,  self- 
esteem,  even  religion  itself,  and  to  regard  these  offerings  as 
mere  grains  of  incense,  burned  in  honor  of  the  idol — that  is 
love." 

"  Yes,  the  love  of  opera  girls,"  said  the  countess,  horrified. 
"  Such  fiery  passion  cannot  last,  and  must  soon  leave  us  nothing 
but  coals  and  ashes,  sorrow  or  despair.  A  wife,  sir,  ought,  in 
my  opinion,  to  offer  you  a  true  affection,  an  even  warmth  of 
feeling — " 

"You  talk  of  warmth,  as  negroes  talk  of  ice,"  said  the  count, 
with  a  sardonic  smile.  "  Consider,  the  most  humble  Easter 
daisy  is  more  seductive  than  the  proudest  and  most  brilliant  of 
the  roses  which  in  the  spring-time  attract  us  with  their  pene- 
trating perfumes  and  vivid  colors.  Moreover"  added  he,  "  I 
do  you  justice ;  you  have  kept  so  strictly  within  the  line  of 
duty  laid  down  by  the  law,  that  in  order  to  show  you  in  what 
respect  you  have  failed  in  relation  to  me,  it  would  be  necessary 
for  me  to  enter  into  details  which  would  offend  your  dignity. 


324!  BALZAC. 

and  to  teacTi  you  certain  things  which  would  seem  to  you  to  be 
the  subversion  of  all  morality." 

"  You  dare  to  talk  of  morality,  when  you  have  just  left  a 
house  in  which  you  have  squandered  the  fortune  of  your  chil- 
dren— in  a'place  of  debauchery  !" 

"  Madame,  there  I  stop  you,"  said  the  count  coolly,  inter- 
rupting his  wife.  "  If  Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille  is  rich,  she 
is  not  rich  at  any  one's  expense.  My  uncle  was  the  master  of 
his  fortune,  he  had  several  heirs,  but  in  his  lifetime,  and  out  of 
pure  friendship  for  her  whom  he  regarded  as  his  niece,  he  gave 
her  the  estate  of  Bellefeuille.  As  for  the  rest,  I  owe  it  to  his 
liberality." 

"  That  conduct  is  worthy  of  such  a  Jacobin,"  said  the 
countess. 

"  Madame,  you  forget  that  your  father  was  one  of  those 
Jacobins  whom  you,  as  a  wife,  condemn  with  so  .little  charity," 
said  the  count  severely.  "  Citizen  Bontems  was  signing  death- 
warrants,  while  my  uncle  was  rendering  only  services  to 
France." 

Madame  de  Granville  was  silent,  but  as  the  recollection  of 
what  she  had  just  seen  aroused  that  jealousy  which  nothing 
can  extinguish  in  the  heart  of  a  woman,  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
as  if  speaking  to  herself,  "  Is  it  possible  thus  to  destroy  one's 
own  soul,  and  that  of  others  ?" 

"  Ah,  madame,"  resumed  the  count,  fatigued  with  this  con- 
versation, "  perhaps  it  is  you  who  will  some  day  have  to  answer 
for  all  this."  (At  this  phrase  the  countess  trembled.)  "  In 
the  eyes  of  the  indulgent  Judge  who  will  weigh  our  offences, 
you  will  doubtless  be  excused  on  account  of  the  good  faith 
with  which  you  have  wrought  my  misery.  I  do  not  ha.te you; 
I  do  hate  the  persons  who  have  perverted  your  head  and  your 
heart.  You  have  prayed  for  me,  just  as  Mademoiselle  de 
Bellefeuille  has  given  me  her  heart,  and  poured  out  on  me  the 
treasures  of  her  love.  You  should  have  been  in  turn,  my 
mistress  and  a  saint  praying  at  the?  foot  of  the  altar.     Do  me 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  325 

the  justice  to  admit  that  I  am  neither  wicked  nor  depraved. 
My  morals  are  pure.  Alas,  at  the  end  of  seven  years  of  suffer- 
ing, the  want  of  happiness  has  led  me  by  imperceptible  degrees 
to  love  another  woman  than  you,  and  to  create  another  family 
than  mine.  Don't  suppose,  however,  that  I  stand  alone ;  there 
are  in  this  city  thousands  of  husbands  who  have  all  been  led  by 
divers  causes  to  this  double  life." 

"  Great  God,"  cried  the  countess,  "  how  heavy  is  my  cross 
become.  If  the  husband  whom,  in  Thine  anger.  Thou  hast 
imposed  upon  me,  cannot  find  happiness  here  below  save  by 
my  death,  recall  me  to  Thy  bosom." 

"  Had  you  always  been  actuated  by  such  admirable  senti- 
ments, and  such  self-sacrifice,  we  should  still  have  been  happy," 
said  the  count  coldly. 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Angelique,  bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears, 
"  forgive  me,  if  I  have  committed  faults.  Yes,  sir,  I  am  ready 
to  obey  you  in  all  things,  feeling  sure  that  you  will  ask  only 
what  is  just  and  natural.  I  will  be  henceforth  all  that  you 
would  wish  a  wife  to  be." 

"  Madame,  if  your  object  be  to  lead  me  to  say  that  I  no 
longer  love  you,  I  shall  have  the  ruthless  courage  to  enlighten 
you.  Can  I  command  my  heart  ?  Can  I  in  one  instant  efface 
the  memory  of  fifteen  years  of  misery?  I  have  ceased  to  love. 
Those  words  enshroud  a  mystery  as  deep  as  that  contained  in 
the  words  I  love.  Esteem,  consideration,  regard,  may  be  won, 
may  be  lost,  and  be  regained ;  but  as  for  love,  if  I  lectured 
myself  for  a  thousand  years,  I  could  not  cause  it  to  grow 
again,  especially  for  a  woman  who  has  tried  to  make  herself 
old." 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  I  most  sincerely  hope  that  those 
words  may  not  some  day  be  uttered  to  you  in  that  tone,  and 
with  that  accent,  by  her  whom  you  love." 

**  Will  you  put  on  a  dress  d,  la  Grecqiie,  and  come  to  the 
opera  with  me  this  evening?" 


326  BALZAC. 

The  shudder  which  this  question  at  once  caused  the  countess 
was  an  unspoken  reply. 


In  the  early  part  of  the  month  of  December,  1833,  a  man 
whose  snow-white  hair  and  the  general  appearance  of  whose 
face  seemed  to  show  that  grief  rather  than  years  had  aged  hin, 
was  passing  at  midnight  through  the  Rue  de  Gaillon,  When 
he  had  got  as  far  as  a  mean-looking  house  two  storeys  high,  he 
stopped  to  look  at  one  of  the  attic  windows  which  at  regular 
intervals  pierced  the  middle  of  the  roof  This  humble  window, 
some  of  whose  panes  had  been  replaced  by  paper,  was  very 
dimly  illuminated.  The  passenger  was  looking  at  the  flicker- 
ing light  with  the  indefinable  curiosity  of  the  Parisian  idler, 
when  a  young  man  suddenly  came  out  of  the  house.  As  the 
pale  rays  of  the  street  lamp  fell  upon  the  face  of  the  inquisitive 
loiterer,  it  will  not  seem  surprising  that,  though  it  was  in  the 
night-time,  the  young  man  advanced  towards  the  passenger 
with  the  hesitation  which  a  Parisian  displays  when  he  fears  he 
may  be  mistaken  in  supposing  that  he  is  meeting  an  acquaint- 
ance, 

"  What,"  cried  he,  "  you.  Monsieur  le  President,  alone  and 
on  foot  at  this  hour,  and  so  far  from  the  Rue  St.  Lazre  ?  Allow 
me  to  have  the  honor  of  offering  you  my  arm.  The  pavement 
this  morning  is  so  slippery,  that  if  we  do  not  support  one 
another  "  (this  he  said  in  order  not  to  offend  the  old  man's 
self-esteem)  "  it  will  be  very  difficult  to  avoid  a  fall." 

"  But  my  dear  sir,  unhappily  for  me,  I  am  as  yet  only  fifty- 
five  years  of  age,"  replied  the  Comte  de  Granville.  "  A  doctor 
so  celebrated  as  you  are,  ought  to  know  that  at  that  time  of 
life  a  man  retains  all  his  strength  ?" 

"  Then  you  must  have  a  little  love  affair  on  hand ;  you  are 
not,  I  fancy,  in  the  habit  of  going  about  Paris  on  foot.  When 
a  man  has  such  splendid  horses  as  yours  .  .  .  ." 


A  DOUBLE   FAMILY.  827 

"  Why,  unless  I  go  out  in  the  evening,"  interrupted  the 
Comte  de  Granville,  "  I  generally  return  from  the  Palais  Royal 
or  from  the  Strangers'  Club  on  foot." 

"  Having  large  sums  of  money,  about  you,  no  doubt,"  said 
the  doctor.     "  Isn't  that  inviting  the  assassin's  dagger?" 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  them"  said  the  Comte  de  Granville  with 
careless  sadness. 

"  But  at  all  events  it  is  wrong  to  stand  still,"  resumed  the 
doctor,  dragging  the  magistrate  towards  the  boulevard.  "  I 
shall  soon  begin  to  think  that  you  want  to  rob  me  of  your  last 
illness,  and  to  die  by  another  hand  than  mine." 

"  Ah,  you  have  caught  me  playing  the  spy,"  replied  the 
count.  "  Whether  I  pass  on  foot  or  in  a  carriage,  and  what- 
ever the  hour  of  night  may  be,  I  have  for  some  time  past  seen 
the  shadow  of  a  person, — who  seems  to  be  working  with  heroic 
courage — cast  upon  the  window  of  the  third  storey  of  the  house 
which  you  have  just  left."  Here  the  count  frowned  as  if  he 
had  felt  a  sudden  pang.  "  I  have  begun  to  take  as  much  in- 
terest in  that  attic,  as  a  citizen  of  Paris  can  possibly  feel  in  the 
completion  of  the  Palais  Royal." 

"  Well,"  cried  Horace  quickly,  interrupting  the  count,  "  I 
can  tell  you  .  .  .  ." 

"  Tell  me  nothing,"  replied  Granville,  cutting  the  doctor 
short,  "  I  would  not  give  a  single  centime  to  learn  whether 
the  shadow  that  trembles  on  those  tattered  curtains,  be  that 
of  a  man  or  that  of  a  woman,  and  whether  the  occupant  of  the 
garret  be  happy  or  miserable.  If  it  surprised  me  to  see  no 
one  working  there  to-night,  and  if  I  stopped,  it  was  simply  for 
the  pleasure  of  forming  conjectures  as  numerous  and  silly  as 
idlers  form  at  sight  of  a  building  suddenly  abandoned.  For 
the  last  nine  years  my  young — "  Here  the  count  hesitated  to 
employ  some  expression ;  then  with  a  "O''  'ire  continued — • 
"  No,  I  will  not  call  you  my  friend,  I  nate  everything  which 
resembles  a  sentiment.  In  the  last  nine  years,  then,  I  have 
ceased  to  wonder  at  the  pleasure  which  old  men  find  in  culti 


328  BALZAC. 

vating  flowers  and  planting  trees.  The  events  of  life  have 
taught  me  no  longer  to  put  any  faith  in  human  affections,  and 
I  grew  old  in  a  few  days.  I  want  to  sever  myself  from  every- 
tliing,  save  unreasoning  animals,  plants,  and  the  mere  externals 
of  life.  I  attach  more  importance  to  the  movements  of  Tagli- 
oni  than  to  all  human  sentiments  put  together.  I  hate  life ; 
I  hate  the  world  in  which  I  find  myself  alone.  Nothing,' 
nothing,"  added  the  count  with  an  expression  which  made  the 
young  man  shudder,  "no,  nothing  moves,  nothing  interests 
me." 

"But  you  have  children ?" 

"  My  children ! "  he  resumed  in  a  peculiarly  bitter  tone. 
"  Well,  as  to  my  children,  there  is  the  eldest  of  my  daughters, 
is  she  not  Comtesse  de  Vaudenesse  ?  As  for  the  second,  her 
sister's  marriage  will  be  the  means  of  securing  her  a  good  match. 
As  for  my  two  sons,  have  they  not  met  with  very  great  success? 
The  vicomte,  after  being  attorney-general  at  Limoges,  has  been 
made  first  president  at  Orleans,  and  my  younger  son  is  here  as 
the  king's  attorney.  My  children  have  cares,  anxieties,  and 
business  of  their  own.  If  one  among  them  had  entirely  devot- 
ed herself  or  himself  to  me,  and  tried  to  fill  with  affection  the 
void  which  I  feel  there"  said  he  striking  his  bosom ;  *' well, 
that  child's  life  would  have  been  a  failure,  would  have  been 
sacrificed  to  me.  And  after  all,  to  what  purpose  ?  To  embel- 
lish my  few  remaining  years.  Would  he  have  succeeded  ? 
Should  I  not  perhaps  have  looked  upon  his  generous  attentions 
as  a  debt?  But,  doctor"  (here  the  old  man  began  to  smile 
with  profound  irony),  "doctor,  it  is  not  for  nothing  that  we 
teach  our  children  arithmetic;  they  know  how  to  calculate. 
Perhaps  at  this  very  moment  my  children  are  on  the  look  out 
for  my  fortune." 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  how  could  such  an  idea  occur  to 
you  who  are  so  good,  so  obliging  and  so  humane  ?  Truly  if  I 
were  not  myself  a  living  proof  of  that  benevolence  which  you 
conceive  in  all  its  breadth  and  beauty.     ,    .    ." 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  329 

"  For  my  pleasure,"  quickly  interposed  the  count  I  pray 
for  a  sensation  as  I  would  to-morrow  give  a  heap  of  gold  for 
the  most  puerile  illusion  which  would  stir  my  heart.  I  help 
my  fellow  creatures,  just  as  I  gamble — for  my  own  sake.  Thus, 
I  do  not  count  upon  the  gratitude  of  any  one.  I  could  with- 
out a  sign  of  grief  see  you  yourself  die,  and  I  require  you  to 
feel  towards  me  as  I  feel  towards  you.  Ah,  young  man,  the. 
events  of  life  have  passed  over  my  heart  as  the  lava  of  Vesuvius 
over  Herculaneum ;  the  city  exists,  but  it  is  dead." 

"  Those  who  have  reduced  to  such  a  state  of  insensibility, 
a  heart  so  warm  and  susceptible  as  yours  was,  are  highly 
culpable." 

"  Don't  add  another  word,"  said  the  count  with  a  feeling  of 
horror. 

"You  have  a  disease  which  you  should  allow  me  to  cure," 
said  Bianchon,  in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion. 

"  Do  you  know  any  remedy  for  death  ? "  cried  the  count 
impatiently. 

"Well,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  I  undertake  to  reanimate  the 
heart  which  you  think  so  dead." 

"  Are  you  equal  to  Talma  ?  "  asked  the  chief  president 
ironically. 

"  No,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  but  nature  is  as  superior  to  Talma 
as  Talma  is  to  me.  Listen ;  the  denizen  of  the  garret  in  which 
you  take  an  interest  is  a  woman  of  thirty;  with  her,  love 
reaches  fanaticism.  The  object  of  her  worship  is  a  young  man 
with  a  handsome  face,  but  endowed  by  some  wicked  fairy  with 
every  possible  vice.  The  youth  is  a  gambler,  and  I  do  not 
know  which  he  likes  best,  women  cr  wine ;  he  has  been  guilty, 
to  my  certain  knowledge,  of  actions  which  ought  to  bring  him 
under  the  notice  of  the  correctional  police.  Well,  this  unfor- 
tunate woman  has  sacrificed  for  his  sake  a  very  prosperous 
existence,  a  man  who  adored  her  and  by  whom  she  has  children. 
But  what  is  the  matter,  Monsieur  le  Comte  ?  " 

"  Nothing — go  on." 


330  BALZAC. 

"She  has  allowed  hhti  to  squander  a  complete  fortune,  she 
would  give  him  the  world,  I  beh'eve,  if  she  had  it ;  she  works 
day  and  night,  and  she  has  often  without  one  murmur  seen  the 
monster  she  adores  rob  her  of  the  money  which  was  intended 
to  pay  for  the  clothes  which  her  children  lacked,  and  even  the 
morrow's  food.  Three  days  ago  she  sold  her  hair — the  most 
beautiful  hair  I  ever  saw ;  he  came  in  before  she  had  time  to 
hide  the  piece  of  gold  ;  he  asked  her  for  it,  and — for  a  smile — 
for  a  kiss — she  surrendered  what  would  have  secured  them 
food  and  tranquility  for  a  fortnight.  Is  it  not  at  once  horrible 
and  sublime?  But  work- is  beginning  to  hollow  her  cheeks. 
The  cries  of  her  children  have  rent  her  heart ;  she  has  fallen 
ill,  she  now  lies  moaning  on  a  truckle  bed.  This  evening  she 
had  nothing  to  eat,  and  her  children  were  too  weak  to  cry ; 
they  were  quiet  when  I  went  in." 

Horace  Bianchon  stopped.  The  Comte  de  Granville  had, 
as  if  in  spite  of  himself,  plunged  his  hand  into  his  waistcoat- 
pocket. 

"  I  understand,  my  young  friend,  how  she  manages  still  to 
exist,  if  she  is  under  your  care." 

"  Ah,  poor  creature  ! "  cried  the  doctor,  "  tvho  would  not 
render  her  aid  ?  I  wish  I  were  richer,  for  I  hope  to  cure  her 
of  her  love." 

The  count,  who,  unobserved  by  the  doctor,  had  put  his  hand 
into  his  pocket,  now  withdrew  it  full  of  notes  which  he  appeared 
to  have  been  searching  for  there. 

"  But,"  replied  he,  "  how  can  you  expect  me  to  sympathize 
with  suffering,  the  pleasures  of  which  would  seem  to  me  to  be 
cheaply  purchased  with  my  whole  fortune.  This  woman  feels; 
she  lives.  Would  not  Louis  Quinze  have  given  his  whole  realm 
to  have  risen  from  his  coffin,  and  have  three  years  of  youth  and 
life?  Is  not  that  the  history  of  millions  of  dead  folks,  of 
millions  of  invalids,  of  millions  of  old  men?" 

"  Poor  Caroline  ! "  cried  the  doctor. 

When  he  heard  that  name,  the  Comte  de  Granville  trembled. 


A  DOUBLE  FAMILY.  331 

and  seized  the  arm  of  the  doctor,  who  feh  as  if  he  were  in  the 
grasp  of  the  iron  lips  of  a  vice. 

*'  Is  her  name  CaroHne  Crochard  ?  "  asked  the  president  in 
a  voice  that  betokened  deep  emotion. 

"  You  know  her,  then  ?  "  asked  the  doctor  in  astonishment. 

"  And  the  wretch's  name  is  Solvet.  Ah,  you  have  kept  your 
word,"  cried  the  first  president ;  "  you  have  excited  in  my 
heart  the  most  terrible  sensation  which  it  will  experience  till  it 
turns  to  dust.  This  emotion  is  yet  another  gift  of  hell,  and  I 
always  know  how  to  pay  such  debts." 

At  this  moment  the  count  and  the  doctor  had  reached  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  de  la  Chaussde  d'Antin,  One  of  those 
children  of  the  night  who  go  about  with  a  wicker  basket  on 
their  backs,  and  a  hook  in  their  hands,  and  were  therefore 
during  the  revolutionary  epoch  wittily  called,  "  members  of  the 
committee  of  researches,"  was  standing  near  the  post  before 
which  the  president  had  just  stopped.  The  rag-gatherer  had 
an  old  face  worthy  of  those  which  Charlet  has  immortalized  in 
his  caricatures  of  the  scavenger  school. 

"  Do  you  often  find  thousand  franc  notes  ?  "  inquired  the" 
count. 

"  Sometimes,  master." 

"  And  do  you  give  them  up  ?  " 

"  That  depends  upon  the  reward  that  is  offered." 

"There,  my  man,"  said  the  count,  presenting  the  rag- 
gatherer  with  a  thousand  franc  note.  "  Take  that,"  said  he, 
"  but  bear  in  mind  that  I  give  it  you  on  condition  that  you 
spend  it  in  the  public-house,  that  you  get  drunk  there,  fight, 
beat  your  wife,  and  knock  your  friends'  eyes  out.  That  will 
make  work  for  the  watchmen,  the  surgeons,  the  apothecaries, 
perhaps  for  the  gendarmes,  the  king's  attorneys,  the  judges, 
and  the  jailers.  Stick  to  that  programme,  or  the  devil  will 
sooner  or  later  have  it  out  with  you." 

To  do  justice  to  this  nocturnal  scene  a  man  would  need  the 


332  BALZA.C. 

pencils  of  Charlet  and  Callot,  and  the  brushes  of  Teniers  and 
Rembrandt. 

"  Now  my  account  with  hell  is  settled,  and  I  have  had  some 
pleasure  for  my  money,"  said  the  count,  in  a  deep  voice,  as  he 
pointed  out  to  the  astounded  doctor  the  indescribable  face  of 
the  gaping  rag-gatherer. 

"  As  for  Caroline  Crochard,  she  may  die  in  all .  the  horrors 
of  hunger  and  thirst,  with  the  heart-rending  cries  of  her  chil- 
dren in  her  ears,  and  in  her  heart  the  full  conviction  of  the 
baseness  of  the  man  she  loves.  I  would  not  give  one  farthing 
to  hinder  her  from  suffering,  and  for  the  single  reason  that  you 
have  given  her  help,  1  hope  that  I  may  never  see  you  more — " 

Leaving  Bianchon  more  motionless  than  a  statue,  the  count 
disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  Rue  St.  Lazare,  with  all  the 
speed  of  youth.  He  very  soon  reached  the  door  of  the  little 
hotel  which  he  occupied.  Somewhat  to  his  surprise,  a  carriage 
was  waiting  at  the  door. 

"  Monsieur  le  Procureur  du  roi  came  here  an  hour  since  to 
speak  to  you,  sJr,  and  is  waiting  in  your  bed-room,"  said  the 
valet  to  his  master. 

Granville  motioned  his  servant  away. 

"  What  important  motive  compels  you  to  infringe  the  order 
I  gave  my  children  not  to  come  to  my  house  unless  I  send  for 
them?"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  entered  the  room  where  his 
son  was. 

"  Father,"  replied  the  young  man,  in  a  trembling  voice,  and 
with  a  respectful  air,  "  I  venture  to  hope  that  you  will  forgive 
me  when  you  have  heard  me." 

"  That  is  a  very  proper  answer,"  said  the  count.  "  Sit 
down.  But  whether  I  walk  about  or  remain  seated,  lake  no 
notice  of  me." 

"  Father,"  resumed  the  baron,  "  this  afternoon  at  four  o'clock, 
a  young  man  who  was  arrested  in  the  house  of  one  of  my 
friends,  from  whom  he  had  stolen  a  considerable  sum,  referred 
us  to  you.     He  says  he  is  your  son." 


A  DOUBLE  fa:milt.  333 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  "  said  the  count,  trembling. 

"  Charles  Crochard." 

"  Enough,"  said  the  father,  with  a  gesture  of  command. 

Thereupon  Granville  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room 
amid  profound  silence,  which  his  son  was  careful  not  to 
interrupt. 

*'  My  son  "  (these  words  were  uttered  in  a  voice  so  gentle 
and  so  paternal,  that  the  young  man  trembled  with  emotion), 
"  Charles  Crochard  has  told  you  the  truth.  I  am  glad  you 
came  this  evening,  my  good  Eugene,"  added  the  old  man. 
"  Here  is  a  considerable  sum  of  money,"  said  he,  producing  a 
pile  of  bank-notes ;  "  you  will  employ  it  in  this  matter  as  you 
think  best.  I  trust  to  you  and  approve  beforehand  of  all  your 
arrangements,  whether  for  the  present  or  the  future.  Eugene, 
my  dear  boy,  come  and  embrace  me ;  this  is  perhaps  the  last 
time  we  shall  see  each  other.  To-morrow  I  shall  ask  the  king 
for  leave  of  absence,  and  shall  start  for  Italy.  If  a  father  is 
not  bound  to  account  to  his  children  for  his  life,  he  is  bound 
to  bequeath  them  the  experience  fate  has  sold  him ;  is  it  not 
a  part  of  the  inheritance  ?  When  you  marry,"  resumed  the 
count,  with  an  involuntary  shudder,  "  do  not  lightly  enter  into 
that  solemn  engagement,  the  most  important  of  all  those  which 
society  forces  upon  us.  Remember  to  study  for  a  long  time 
the  disposition  of  the  woman  with  whom  you  are  about  to 
associate  yourself;  but  consult  me;  I  should  like  to  form  my 
own  opinion  about  her.  The  want  of  union  between  husband 
and  wife,  no  matter  whence  it  springs,  brings  dreadful  misery 
in  its  train ;  we  are,  sooner  or  later,  punished  for  not  obeying 
the  laws  of  society.  I  will  write  to  you  from  Florence  upon 
this  subject.  A  father,  especially  if  he  has  the  honor  of  being 
president  of  a  supreme  court,  ought  not  to  have  to  blush  before 
his  son.    Good-bye." 

IHE    END, 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGiONA^  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000  752  025     7 


w^^.v-:'^'- 


i 


^jjlvi^V":)' 


<   i    I 

1  i  1 


i  i 


.  ! 


i  I 


1  ;  ' 


]  1 


1    ! 


!    ! 


»  j 


1  !  ;     I 


!  '     I 


